


a perpetual sunrise

by moonshinelouis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Angst, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, Louis Tomlinson Calls Harry Styles Pet Names, M/M, No Smut, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexuality Crisis, also this isn't a kid fic, like every fic of mine, not really. more of an awakening, very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22025815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonshinelouis/pseuds/moonshinelouis
Summary: Louis Tomlinson lives the archetype of a successful man: he has a big white house, a gorgeous wife, and adorable daughters. Happiness is a superfluity, really. And his daughters' dimpled piano teacher is nothing more than a sinful distraction.1950s AU.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 31
Kudos: 214
Collections: 1D Fic Fest 2019





	1. if i could fly

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for everyone in this fic fest for putting it together! thank you [mery](https://matchingbees.tumblr.com/) for the gorgeous moodboard :') i love it very very much.
> 
> thank you also to my wonderful friends :> who didn't directly help with this but deserve love anyway. [neely](https://michael-cliffords-peacock.tumblr.com), ilysm thank you for giving me attention :') i can't believe you actually listen to my billions of snaps. [aani](https://altarrias.tumblr.com), you're one of the funniest people i know; i'm still thinking about the vine drawings you sent me. they give me life. [taty](https://loverpiano.tumblr.com), if you don't stop sending me bde louis posts i'm probs going to conbust before i'm even thirty... ~~but if you stop i'll die as well so please don't~~. you're a literal angel ty for reblogging my crap posts and being just,, the nicest.
> 
> a special shout-out to lyly, who saw this at 500 words and listened to me go on about it for... like ten months holy shit. thank you for the past few years of friendship and everything; you're a strong one for lasting so long tbh. this story would not have been here if it weren't for you!!!!
> 
> if you're worried about anything you're wary of reading, just send me an ask on [tumblr](https://moonshinelouis.tumblr.com) (preferably off-anon so i don't spoil it to everyone but however you feel safest.) however, this fic is mostly about interalised feelings; there is very little external things.
> 
> there's a lot of smoking in this fic! also a little bit of drinking.
> 
> title comes from the lesbian film _carol_ (2015) / book _the price of salt_ (1952)

_so many nights i thought it over  
_ _told myself i kind of liked her  
_ _but there was something missing in her eyes  
_ — _home, one direction (2015)_

**i.**

There was a cul-de-sac at the top of Thorn Hill. All along the street leading up to it, were sprinkled houses upon houses, which gradually enlarged as the top of the hill neared. The mansions faced inwards, to a gorgeous picket-fenced garden, where the rich who owned them rendezvoused.

The rich snobs at Highlands lived by the grass is greener motto, always trying to outdo each other: if one family got a new car, everyone got a new car. If someone’s daughter got engaged, all the other girls would rush to find themselves a nice man to propose. If one family became pregnant, suddenly all able families were expecting as well. (This resulted in lots of similarly-aged children to dot the park and the nearby shops, their mothers meeting up for tea their fathers to smoke.)

The youngest family there was the Tomlinsons. Louis Tomlinson’s parents had lived in the cul-de-sac before his father died and his mother moved to a bigger house down west, where her teenage daughters could raise horses and her patio was thrice as large as the house, expanding almost beyond where the eye could reach. She bought the house thinking of the grandchildren that would one day fill its rooms and gardens.

Louis had bought a house at Highlands after graduating university and getting married. It wasn’t his childhood home, but it made no difference: all the mansions had the same design.

Louis and his wife Agnes, a blue-eyed brunette much like Louis himself, had a set of twins: Daphne and Kaila. Unlike most of his neighbours, Louis didn’t yearn for a son to whom inherit all his life’s work; he was content with his beloved daughters.

Although the neighbours talked, the Tomlinsons never made a case for their lack of more children. But as most shameful topics are, at home, the mood was different: Agnes would always make a point to mention it when things were “looking promising tonight,” but Louis, nose-deep in his books, would pretend not to have heard or lack interest. Hidden in the pages, he would bite his lip and drown out questions with the words in front of him. Agnes would sigh, and get back to her own novel, sipping from a crystal wine glass.

*******

In the backyard, Agnes watered her flowers. Her pink mid-calf skirt had a dress collar buttoned till the top that escaped from underneath her sweater.

She hummed as she worked, and let out a short, startled yell when Louis rested his hands on her hips and briefly kissed her neck. She laughed when she noticed it was just her husband, and preened at the interaction. It was rather unusual. Then again, it _was_ the one day of the year in which this could almost be expected: their anniversary.

“Hello, darling,” he smiled, gently balancing her by the hips as she turned around to face him.

“Hi, Lou,” Agnes sang. “Have you planned anything special tonight?” She pursed her lips to contain a smile.

Though it was slightly strained, Louis grinned before pecking her lips briefly. “Of course.” He settled one hand in his pocket and the other on the small of her back, guiding her inside. He was careful to stay out of her way, yielding the narrow, paved path for her heels.

They headed for the piano room, where they found two very eager, excited little girls sitting on the stool, making a grand effort to keep still.

“Hi girls,” Louis whispered when they walked in. They waved back, nearly stumbling over themselves with excitement. Louis winked at them, and they turned to the keys, giggling.

When the notes trickled through the room, Louis took Agnes’s hand and rested the other on her hip, and she clasped her hands around his neck.

They danced silently through the song, their foreheads brushing, and acknowledged the girls’ mistakes with quiet smiles. When the last note was struck, Louis bowed, and Agnes curtsied, and they thanked, profoundly, their pianists.

Their maid knocked on the door then, announcing dinnertime, and the girls left for their meal. Agnes and Louis headed to their room to change into evening wear, as they’d eat out that night.

Louis changed from a simple, lightweight work suit into a heavier tuxedo. Agnes picked a royal blue below-the-knee dress, with a short cape around her shoulders and a tiny red purse to match her hat and ruby earrings. Although the approaching spring days brought a warm breeze with sunup, come moonlight, chilly breezes whipped at exposed skin. Besides, the restaurant was near; they’d leave the car roof folded back.

“How was work?” Agnes asked once they exited the cul-de-sac.

“Normal.” Louis shrugged. “Just the same old things.”

From his left side, Agnes just hummed. There was hardly any other reply.

“How was your day?” He asked out of courtesy.

“Good. It was sunny; I took the girls out for ice cream.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely, dear.”

“It was.” And the conversation died then.

At the restaurant, things did not improve. They looked at the menu in silence. After ordering, they discussed mindless topics. Unlike most of their neighbours, neither one was much too pressed, agreeing far too easily to provoke any substantial banter. Though it was monotonous, it could be far worse. _At least,_ Louis thought, _we don’t have scandalously loud arguments._

“Daphne has requested a piano tutor,” Louis said when the waiter left, in between a sip of champagne.

“Oh? I was hoping they’d get into the violin as well, you know.” She only met his eyes for a second before going back to observing her carefully manicured nails.

“That _would_ be lovely. But they’re so passionate about the piano, though. Perhaps after they’ve mastered it.”

“I suppose. When will you start looking for someone, then?”

“As soon as possible. I haven’t had the time yet.” Agnes hummed.

“Shall we head back?” She glanced at the bill atop the signed check.

“Sure.”

*******

Daphne and Kaila were already asleep when they returned, but still, Louis sat down beside each one and just watched them breathe for a couple of minutes. He brushed their skin lightly and pressed a delicate kiss to each one’s forehead. He used the time to think about life, about how he’d live just like this forever if only to continue seeing his daughters smile every day. He wouldn’t do them the burden of destroying the family. He couldn’t.

By the time he got to his and Agnes’s room, she was asleep too.

Thank God.

**ii.**

The first thing Louis noticed was the man’s hair. Tight little chocolate ringlets sprinkled over his warm, milk-white skin, curling around his ears. Then, his emerald eyes and cerise lips. Louis had to look up a few inches.

“Hello,” he smiled kindly.

It was like Louis had pulled the string that made him spew a pre-recorded message. “Good afternoon, I’m Harry Styles. I’m here for Mr Tomlinson?” His deep, rough voice didn’t quite match his cherubic dimples, but the contrast was interesting.

“Call me Louis.” He gestured for Harry to come in and closed the door behind him. “So, how long’ve you been playing?” (He didn’t know what else to ask, but he knew he had to ask _something._ Right?)

Harry shrugged sweetly. “Since forever, I think. I don’t remember not knowing.”

Louis quirked an eyebrow. “The girls too. They’ve been curious about the responsive keys since they began to move around, so I just sat them with me to play.”

Harry took off his jacket, hanging it by the door. “You play too?”

“I do,” Louis looked around. “I taught them a lot, but they want more.” His eyes settled and he opened a private smile. “Hey girls! Come here.”

They were two brunettes, reaching Louis’ hip in height. They skipped towards them, giggling amongst themselves. They had long, brushed hair and silk bows on their head that matched the colour of their skirts.

Louis gestured towards the girl on the left, who wore a peach-coloured dress; “That’s Daphne.” The other wore baby pink in the exact same style: “And Kaila.” 

“They’re adorable. You must be proud.”

The girls glanced at them but turned on the hallway, prompting a chuckled, “Hey!” from Louis. Apparently _going_ to them hadn’t been in the plans; they had simply wanted to know what the fuss was about.

Harry smiled. People usually turned up their nose at Louis’ easy-going parenting, but Harry seemed to appreciate its peace.

“Thank you. I am.” He stuffed a hand in his pocket, the other coming up to scratch his bare chin. Words began to form on Louis’ thin lips, but they were interrupted by Agnes walking in. She wore a lightweight day dress that hugged her slim, demanding figure. 

“Hello, you must be the piano tutor?” Her voice was glossy. “I’m Agnes.” Poised and delicate, calculating. She extended a gloved hand in his direction.

“I am. Harry, pleased to meet you.” He tried for a smile.

She shook his hand only once, lightly; disinterested. “I’ll be in the study,” she directed at Louis. And she was gone.

***

“Let me show you around,” Louis said. He knew his wife well; knew that she cut glass with her sight and drew blood with her words.

From the entrance hall, one could either enter the study room, where Agnes had gone in, or continue into the house. The large stairwells bent to open room for precious sunlight, which crawled on the shiny floor.

“You should expect lots of chatter coming from this room on Wednesdays,” Louis explained when they walked past the dining room. “It’s the day the women of the neighbourhood meet at our house.”

Next, they entered a living room, with a television next to the fireplace. (Harry had never seen one in a home, only behind the glass of stores. But he had never gone in and touched one.) Above the centred fireplace was a picture of Louis and his wife on their wedding day. He looked gorgeous, in an expensive onyx suit and quiffed hair, but Harry nearly winced when he found his eyes on the photo — cold and distant, unsmiling. Harry argued, in his head, that a single photograph did not dictate an entire event, much less entire lives.

The lady in Louis’ arm radiated glee. She wore a pearl full gown, accentuating her thin waist and slim upper body. She and Louis looked so much alike they could pass as siblings.

“The living room, of course.” Louis swept his eyes around the room but curved his line of sight to avoid the picture.

“It’s beautiful,” Harry commented. Louis didn’t reply.

There were double glass doors leading to a clean-cut backyard, with tiny pink bicycles thrown carelessly on the lawn near a small flower garden, but Louis walked past them.

“And finally,” Louis said as they approached wooden doors, “the piano room.”

The grand piano was breathtaking — Harry even gasped lightly. The music sheets were centred on the stand, organized like on a magazine cover. It faced large panel windows, in front of which sat a settee and a small coffee table, which showed a different part of the garden than that from the living room.

“It may look organized, but inside that stool,” Louis chuckled, “is the biggest of messes.” He leaned against the frame of the door and pointed at the bench with his chin.

“I would expect no less. A good pianist is a mess of partitions,” Harry replied with a grin.

Louis called in Daphne and Kaila, and they were quiet, but not shy like most kids. Daphne, in particular, was rather bossy, making it very clear that she already knew how to play quite a few songs, but she was too young and chubby to be snobby. And indeed, they were quite proficient. They had agile long fingers, muscles eager to learn the movements. Harry told Louis as much after the girls left for tea.

“So, you’ll teach them?” Louis asked as if there was any answer other than “With pleasure.”

*******

And so it went: thrice weekly, Harry would drive up to Thorn Hill after work and spend an hour aiding Daphne on the piano and another with Kaila, then have tea with Louis and his wife before heading back home. The work was enjoyable and paid well, and Harry looked forward to coming every time.

Louis, to his part, enjoyed Harry’s company. He hadn’t had a friend who wasn’t also a work partner in a long time.

**iii.**

It was Friday, two weeks in, when Harry called, saying he wouldn’t be able to make it because his Lambretta had broken down. Agnes hung up with a simple “Okay.” Harry knew she didn’t much mind for him.

Whenever he was in her presence, she’d look him up and down and rest on her heel, unimpressed. She’d never been outright rude to Harry, but she kept their interactions to a minimum, with short, dry answers that strangled any conversation. It would be almost infuriating, if not for Louis beside her, calm and understanding, who’d gladly pick up after her loose-ended threads with practiced ease.

Harry was also pretty sure she knew. The evening they were introduced, she’d asked if Harry was married yet.

“No,” he’d answered in between gulps of hot tea.

“Well, is there a special lady in your life then?” she’d pressed. Harry almost laughed but held it in without even choking on his tea.

“No, no.” He tried for an easy smile.

“Why, not even interest from afar? A man so young and talented like yourself...”

She definitely knew. Harry just didn’t understand _how_ — he was careful to keep his professional life as distant as possible from anything too real, too personal; the commute alone should’ve been enough for his safety. The only explanation would be that she had spies, lying in the uglier suburbs, away from her pretty palace atop her exclusive hill, and that made no sense at all, Harry knew.

He avoided talking to her entirely, not wanting to be cornered ever again. The way she would bite down on her lip, as though to contain a full-on devil-smirk, told Harry that her full blow would come — and sooner, rather than later.

For the time being, he enjoyed teaching Daphne and Kaila, and tea time with Louis.

*******

Harry was walking down Thorn Hill to his flat when a car slowed down beside him, driving at almost the same pace he was walking. He actively ignored it, knew how to deal with this after one too many catcalls.

Harry startled when he heard his name, shaking his suitcase embarrassingly. He looked up then, if only to shout at the nonsensical driver, but his jaw fell speechless when he saw the man looking back at him from the driver’s seat.

“What’re you doing, Harry?” Louis shouted from his car. He’d stopped the car completely now, because Harry was frozen too. “Besides staring, I mean.” Louis winked cheekily. 

If Harry’s brain had recovered before, it would’ve been no use. He was left short-circuited and blushing and unblinking all over again, a hundred times worse.

Whether he stared dumbly for half a second or a full minute — or perhaps even an hour — he didn’t know, but when he came back to himself, Louis was smirking smugly. He wore it well. 

“Brokedown farther up the street. I called in, though. Thought Agnes would’ve let you know,” he finally responded, voice strained. He tapped his suit jacket if only to drift his eyes from Louis’.

“Oh, I must’ve been in the car already. Hop in; we can still have tea, if you’d like. I’ll drive you back home afterwards.”

Harry bit his lip but nodded, walking around the car to the passenger’s side. Louis’ car was grey-blue, glimmering in the sunlight, with a sleek white oval halving the car horizontally. In the back sat the folded roof, accentuating the car’s leather-white seats with aegean details. It was as fancy as Agnes’ car, which Harry had seen sat in front of their house, but the similarities ended there — hers was cherry red and had sharp edges; it sliced through the air when it ran. Louis’ was round and smooth; it flew.

Louis drove with one hand out the window, a cigarette in between his fingers. Harry took the opportunity to observe his profile, to map the way his hairs interlaced to form his short beard; to admire his triplet moles, right on his cheek, which were hidden with distance; to admire the way his caramel fringe swooped at the tip and the way he cradled his cigarette with his long fingers as he fixed it every few minutes.

Louis was gorgeous.

Harry hoped he knew. He wished he could tell him.

*******

The housekeeper opened the door. She wore a white apron with barely-visible silver flowers sitting atop her plain blue dress, her hair in a stylish though strict bun.

“Hello, Mr Tomlinson, Mr Styles,” she greeted them cheerfully,

“Evening, Mrs O’Brien,” Louis smiled. Harry nodded and beamed at her.

“You’ve arrived just in time. Tea will be served shortly,” she informed them before heading to the kitchen.

Louis greeted Agnes with curt “Hello, Agnes.” Her only response was a distracted, “Hi,” without even looking up from her book.

Daphne and Kaia were much more enthusiastic. They came running down the hall, talking excitedly about all the things they’d done that day.

“We missed our piano lesson, Mr Styles!” Kaila whined.

“I missed it too,” Harry pouted. “But I’m here now, aren’t I? And in time for food. No better time, innit?”

Kaia smirked and giggled. “It sure is.”

Though usually Louis steered clear of any work-related topics at the dinner table — even if it was tea time — that day he started the topic himself.

“So Harry,” he began. “What do you do?”

In front of him, Harry took his time swallowing and settling in his chair. “At a department store. The one at the very foot of the hill.” He knew this would cause a reaction; a department store, where they would assume, correctly, he was not paid well enough to live nearby. He lived in a complex a few roads down, where a lot of his co-workers lived too. Poor, intermixing. A queer little place from which to hire someone to be near their children.

“Ah, I’m sure we’ve been there at some point,” Louis said kindly. “Twenty-four hours, innit?” Harry nodded. “Yeah. With children, supplies are hardly needed at regular office hours,” he scrunched his nose dramatically at the girls.

“Hey!” Daphne said, scandalised.

Harry smiled brightly, exposing his dimples from behind the teacup.

“Shh,” Louis hissed, offering her more bread. She accepted it as a peace offering.

*******

“So,” Louis grunted around his cigarette as he fumbled to light it. “What’s the address?”

“Um, you can drop me off at the shop, actually. I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he looked out the window.

“No way, Harry. It’s cold out today.”

“It’s nearly spring, Louis. I’ll be fine.”  
  
“Lad, it’s not spring yet. And today is an especially cold evening.” Harry pouted at him. “Harry. I don’t care if it’s a bad neighbourhood. I won’t see you frostbitten.”

“You’re so dramatic! It may be chilly, but not enough for _frostbite!”_ Harry grinned. (And then he did the most lovely of things: he giggled, sweetly and beautifully, for the entire neighbourhood to hear.) When he covered his mouth to suppress the sound, Louis pulled at his arm gently.

“These old wankers will live with a little bit of happiness in their street,” he scoffed.

Harry didn’t continue giggling, but he did smile broadly enough to show his dimples.

“So, where to?”

*******

Harry did live in a bad street. There were loads of people out in the streets celebrating Friday night in bars, mostly. Some were already very drunk. Others had enough glasses around them to be well on their way. There was cackling laughter in between drunken fights, slow dancing to the fast-paced music, and chaos all around; there were white and black people kissing and women wearing pants and all sorts of things Louis had never encountered in real life, things that he had been taught to disapprove. And yet, he couldn’t find it in himself to feel scared or disgusted at the partying. Most people looked happy.

When he looked to his side, Harry was tapping his fingers furiously, and breathing rather rapidly. Louis immediately calmed his posture. “Everything alright?” he asked softly.

Harry looked up sharply at that, his pupils incredibly dilated and lips bitten raw. “Whu?”

“Darling, are you alright?” Louis would stop the car to care for him properly if they were at a better street. “Hey, what it is?”

Harry looked deep into his eyes for so long, he began worrying he’d crash the car, because Louis could not look away. But then Louis swallowed and looked ahead, and Harry inhaled. “‘M fine. Thank you.” His voice came out gruff and low, which startled him.

“Y’alright?” Louis was still being really delicate with him, and Harry tried to hide his blush by scratching his cheek, but Louis had seen it, even under yellow streetlights.

“I, uh,” he rested his hands on his lap and breathed. “I really like teaching the girls. I like working with your family. And… I don’t wanna lose my job.” He’d started off well, but the end of the sentence was barely choked out.

“Why would I do that?” Louis furrowed his eyebrows. “Because of where you live?” Harry nodded slowly. “That doesn’t mean—” he swallowed. “That barely says anything about you.”

Harry tilted his head to the side. He had a playful, though still a little nervous, twist of his lips. “If that’s what you’d like to believe,” he settled.

“Um, well, you can continue to teach them piano. I, uh, I don’t mind. It’s fine.”

“Well, thank you.”

Both were unsure how to continue the conversation, allowing for tense silence to creep in between them like a third person.

Eventually, Harry pointed to a building and said, “That’s where I live.” It was not a place Louis would ever even consider living in. It was a brick building, with the cement glue visible and uneven and unappealing. The window sills, clearly once white, were grey and dirty. It was nothing like Louis’ pristine white mansion, or even like the cheaper houses at Thornhill.

“How’s your lambretta?”

“It’s at the mechanic. I should be able to make it on Monday; I’m picking it up after work.”

“Oh, good. I was considering giving you a ride.” Harry snapped his head from where he was observing the building to look at Louis.

“That’s really kind of you.”

“It’s the least I could do, Harry.”

“You know you could get arrested just for being here, right? It’s no small thing.”

Louis scoffed. “I’ll be fine, Harry.”

*******

Louis’ dad had been an accountant. Later, of course, he’d become the owner of the company, which is why Louis had so much money at the young age of twenty-eight.

Louis absolutely despised the work.

Sitting in a stuffy office all day, doing nothing but hiring and firing perpetually held no place in his heart. He could, however, appreciate that he didn’t have to do much, which allowed plenty of time to read and to ponder.

Louis did love reading. He’d read most classics and a few indie works too; he read everything. His favourites, or the ones he enjoyed and analysed the most, were probably _The Picture of Dorian Grey_ and _The Great Gatsby_. (He didn’t like to think about it much, but deep down he knew he was attracted to those novels because the characters showed unapologetic fascination towards other males.)

Of course, he’d heard of men having sex with men, kissing on the mouth. He’d heard they were mentally ill, and he’d seen the news reports on court cases of “gross indecency.” He’d seen police officers taking away dozens at a time, had seen how some pled mercy whilst others went into the car firmly, as though it were a fancy ride rather a police escort.

He didn’t like to think about it. He was comfortable in his house, with his children. That is not to say he was happy, of course, but that, Louis thought, was far too much to ask, seeing how some people didn’t have the luxury of having a full belly or a warm, fluffy bed or the time to read. No, being happy was a mere superfluity few were lucky to afford, and he understood money had little to do with it. He was just unlucky with that one tiny — almost insignificant — aspect of his life. It was nothing that would kill him.

*******

Harry’s Lambretta was not fixable. Harry had sounded upset over the phone, but, of course, he wouldn’t admit to having cried. Nor would Louis ever insinuate such. Perhaps it was a good thing because Louis then took to driving Harry home after tea, even if every night Harry told him he could get arrested, that he shouldn’t, that he could just drop him off nearby. Louis wouldn’t have it. In fact, he’d make a point to stop right in front of Harry’s building and wait until he waved from his window to drive back home.

Harry worried, of course. Louis’ image would be ruined, his daughters would live a life of bullying, and for something that was sadly not true. That’s where Harry always cut himself off, not daring to think of this any more than it was, any more than it should be. It is what it is, Louis had told him so himself, one night as they were alone, swallowed in the darkness of the night and deafened by the wind blowing past them, albeit in a different context. He would definitely agree, though. He had a wife, he had children, he had propriety. Even if they lived in other times, if they were of different sexes, Harry would still not have much to offer.

*******

Louis glanced at his wristwatch for the fourth time in less than a minute. He inhaled deeply, bringing his hands to rub his eyes just to have something to do with his hands. He was late. As he was finally leaving his office earlier that day, a coworker had stopped him, trapping him in a dull conversation he’d already had at least a hundred times in his short adult life before. He’d pretended to listen as much as could, but it was hard, what with the promise of bright emerald eyes and chocolate giggles waiting for him.

Louis tapped his feet and glanced at his watch and ran his hands through his hair to waste the minutes that kept him away from Harry.

When Louis finally knocked on Harry’s door, he was met with a mess of curly hair, a Harry he’d never seen before. He wore jeans, for one, and Louis had never even owned one. His simple white shirt was hidden behind a sweater, tucked into his pants, but the collar was still visible. He looked so casual that Louis had the sudden urge to look away, to not intrude him in such a personal hour, and to perhaps hide the heat of his cheeks.

“Louis?”

He looked up to effervescent green eyes curiously tilted to the side.

“Wha’ you doing here so early?”

“Early?” is the first thing Louis said, bringing his watch back out from under his sleeve.

“Yes?” Harry had a playful smile on his lips, dimples showing. “By a whole hour, too.”

“What? How can that be?” Louis’ eyebrows are tightly knit, thinking back the entire day.

“I dunno. But it’s only four-fifty.”

“Can it be that my watch’s gone mad?” Louis muttered, fiddling with his wristwatch.

“Well, would you like to come in?” He’d never invited Louis in before. “I haven’t had a proper clean in a bit, but it’s not a bird’s nest or anything.” That provoked a hearty, genuine chuckle out of Louis, which in turn made Harry blush with pride.

“Of course. I don’t know how a single lad like you manages; when I studied, my room was an utter mess. Socks all over the place.”

“Well, I trust it wasn’t so bad, if Agnes stayed,” Harry said, distractedly rubbing at the kettle. It came off more than just a bit stingy. Louis furrowed his nose but stayed quiet, looking around.

Harry’s flat was small and ruddy. The walls weren’t really white anymore and they peeled at some places. The kitchen had only a bleak cooker and tweaky-looking cabinets. The two armchairs facing a small coal fire, a radio sitting in between, were shabby and yellowed. Despite it not being lavish, it was a house well-taken care of, clear in the spotless balconies and the pearl lace laying on tabletops. It radiated Harry, the way the furniture was arranged, the colours of the walls, the pictures he’d chosen to frame.

It was a home.

“She never did see that flat,” Louis said off-handedly. He’d been quiet for so long that Harry startled with his voice.

Harry hummed, but didn’t comment further.

They sat on the tatty chairs and smoked some, trading stories and laughs before they headed to the mansion.

**iv.**

It was a sticky summer night when Louis picked up the thin envelope from the mailbox. Per usual, he walked around his car and onto the pathway over the grass to the entrance, mindlessly looking over the letters. He’d opened it distractedly, only to find, inside, a single slip of paper, with five words written in an unfamiliar script.

_It’s on its way, miss. — M._

That was when Louis turned the envelope around with a confused frown. He found, written in the same sharp cursive, a single name: _Agnes Mclindner._ He flinched at her maiden name, shocked to see it, after so many years, sit beside her first as though it had never left.

Louis continued the pathway to the doorway and into the house, though his mind had been abandoned one or two steps behind him, and all that was left was the deafening silence in his mind. He couldn’t hear the birds chirping or the children laughing or the bike tires running on the cement; he couldn’t hear his own steps hitting the grass or the path or the floor, nor could he hear the music that played from the phonograph once he reached the library, where Agnes sat happily.

Miss Agnes Mclindner had been a witty young woman. Rich, educated, and gorgeous, she had everything men desired but not a drop of desperation running in her blood. She’d refused every single date and every proposal that dared pronounce her name, instead looking away from a brood of handsome athletic men and straight at the side of _his_ head. She observed his profile — the curve of his nose and the cut of his sharp cheekbones, his fluffy hair and the way he spoke. She observed the way his lips curled around the cigar and the way his fingers closely encaptured it, the way he rested his hand in his pocket and exposed his neck when he blew away the smoke. She saw in him what she’d been waiting for: a man she could break.

She looked back at the men surrounding her and offered them a flirtatious, demeaning twist of her lips, punctuated by a sly lick and soft bite of her bottom lip and she turned her face away to complain that none of them had yet offered her a dance and that she’d lost interest, so please excuse her. She made a beeline for the man she’d spotted, using the men’s desperate begging her to stay as more incentive to roll her hips. She basked in the way she captured his attention when she got to him — squeezed in between him and his friend in order to reach for a cigar, flicked her eyes at him only once. He didn’t speak (nor blink nor move a single muscle) as the seconds dragged out, as she fluttered her eyelashes at him and turned away.

For the rest of the night, she made sure to be always in his sight, but never unaccompanied, and never unhappily so. She made sure to not catch his eye, instead of making his long to meet hers. She knew how to play her game.

Finally, after much watching from aside, he decided this girl would never be caught alone. He cut his way into her conversation, stumbling over introductions and quickly offering to light her a cigar. At that, she’d tilted her head, for he’d shown, with that small action, that he was no fool. He understood her game and gave right in; just the way she liked it.

Cunningly sending a smirk her friends’ way, Agnes Mclindner extended her hand and tuned in to Mr Louis Tomlinson’s raspy voice. When she made her way back, his number scrawled on a piece of paper and tightly secured in her purse, she’d made it very clear: she would be Mrs Tomlinson.

Sure indeed, he’d called not two days later, asking for a simple stroll down the park and a kiss on the cheek; and not a year later, she came back to that very same pub to celebrate the diamond ring dangling on her finger.

It must not be forgotten that she was also wise. She understood, from the very moment she’d seen him, that he did not see her as other men did. And she knew that deep down, buried under fear and un-acknowledgement, that he understood that the way she saw him was different than other women did. She could not, then, feel bad if they were both using each other.

She’d gotten herself a fine deal, and she would clutch it with teeth and nails. Those would, after all, be in quite a good shape after a decade or so of the fine treatment they would receive whilst living under his pay.

When she became Mrs Agnes Tomlinson, something within her died, Louis thought. She no longer sought his attention nor wittily remarked every happenstance as she once would have. Instead, she sat quietly, reading her books or tending to her rosebuds.

Whatever it was had revived as a living-dead when Harry Styles stepped in her home. Her once carefully poised comments became drenched in poison, and she relearned to strangle conversation with a one-word response or the occasional loaded silence or, deadliest of all, an expression that said it all. She sensed the end, and she carefully constructed it so it would smell foul from a thousand miles away and look as shiny exciting as a karated jewel.

When Louis walked in his library to find not his wife but Miss Agnes Mclindner sitting on her armchair, dainty feet fixed under her bum and heels turned over on the floor, he knew things were over before her expression confirmed it, before she voiced her words.

He couldn’t precisely recall what she’d told him, but the feeling lingered. She had touched his chest softly, but her words bit. She had kissed him warmly one last time, but her lips stung. And then he was left to stare at her swaying hips exiting the room with his thoughts echoing in screeches louder and higher than a banshee’s within his skull. He didn’t even realise it when she snatched the note from his grasp, so lost in his inner haze that he was.

*******

The days after that blurred into shapeless wailing creatures for Louis.

He went to work every day — he knew he’d put on clothes and sat in his car, knew his secretary had rattled off a list of daily affairs of which he did none — but he didn’t remember what he’d done, who he’d seen, or where exactly he’d been. He had breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner, but he could not recall a single dish, a single taste; he only knew he’d eaten at all because the weight of fat sat heavily in his stomach and bad breath accumulated in his mouth by morning. Besides such basics, he didn’t do anything.

After work, he’d sit in his library and watch the sun disappear, or the raindrops stain the windows, or the fog darken; he’d watch Harry accompany the girls on the piano, and he’d notice his worried expression, and though his rational mind understood it, he didn’t process it, didn’t reply, mentally or physically.

For perhaps two weeks, he didn’t utter a single word he’d meant or considered. Greetings and farewells aside, he’d gone about aloof to the world around him, slave to his feet’s decisions.

Agnes had left before dinner on the day he’d picked up the letter, driving off in her pink car with her short carnelian curls brushing her cat-eye sunglasses and leaving a trail of designer perfume along with the memory of her scarf tangling in the air behind her.

He knew Harry had asked about her, the anamnesis nearly drowning in his sea of thoughts the exact moment when or how he’d asked, but Louis had no idea how long ago it had been or whether or not he’d responded at all. Had he, perhaps, simply stared off at the direction she’d driven, mouth shut and eyelids half-closing? Or, it was possible he’d simply burst into tears and crumbled into a wet, snotty mess, right in front of the grand piano? But if that were the case, wherever had the tissues gone, the mucus stains rested? And he could not allow the possibility that he’d simply looked back at Harry with empty eyes and turned his back to him, the words not making it to his brain quick enough for him to catch Harry in the same place, so he could answer and escape his shrilling thoughts.

Two weeks of Louis and his inner-self only.

It might’ve been a great time to ponder, if it weren’t for the howling banshees of aleatory words and phrases and memories yelling back at him all the things he’d perhaps done wrong, and throwing at him clues he ought to have had picked up before, all the while Louis would be inwardly choking with overwhelm.

The one thing he noted common about these: they were never about missing her. Not her touch or smell or company or voice or whatever else those stupid songs were about, anyway. Even when he tried, he could not feel sad when remembering her, whichever part of her he would try to picture. No, what had stuck him in a loop were her sticky, ugly final words, long since distorted into a screech in his mind’s well, so disfigured at that point that if one were to read his thoughts through a machine they would not be able to guess what they said; he himself only understood it because her tone had been imprinted in his skull, staining all it saw with a hideous sneer, and he could not spend a single daytime thought away from her implication or nightmares hidden from her manicured claws.

In all that time, Louis did not actually cry. His face, in fact, had remained a scarily emotionless statue, always showing the same facade and using the same tone of voice and reacting to absolutely nothing. If a person had dropped dead right in front of him whilst in that state, he would’ve conceivably not even noticed; maybe he’d have simply moved out of the way and continued trotting wherever his sullen state had deemed reasonable.

The girls were too young to understand; they were merely unhappy that their father would not answer their questions or brush their hair or listen to the topics they considered of high importance. Nonetheless, Harry took it upon himself to give them the most attention he could in his two-hour slot and during tea time, listening to them babble on and on but replying seriously and thoughtfully. Yet his mind was always a white cloud, opening just enough to allow a single, perfect string of sunlight to catch on the eyelashes of the man that sat in the very centre of his universe; the man he’d been before, smiley and crinkly-eyed and, though this was but a daydream, radiating sarcastic humour in the scratchy texture of his voice with which Harry had so quickly and dangerously and helplessly become familiarized.

Louis wouldn’t talk to him — or anyone, for that matter. He wouldn’t play the piano or eat very much or even read, and he knew how much he adored reading. Mrs O’Brien had told Harry, upon the annoying insistence of his part and against her initial hesitancy to disclose private information, that such was true all the time, now; not just when Harry was around. It gnawed at him, knowing there was nothing to do but wait for Louis to heal, to meanwhile simply make sure his basic needs were met.

He wished he could hug him. But then Louis would know for sure that he was queer. Of course, after driving Harry home, Louis must already know, but not with all the proof, not with true certainty. It was the doubt, Harry was sure, that had kept their acquaintance intact; he was not about to ruin it all with wistful, dumb lust.

In his nerves, Harry had taken to biting his nails. They glowered at him, in shreds and angry red that made him dread every handshake and whenever he had to sign something, bringing attention to his nonuniform nails. They got their payback when the bitten skin by his nail beds swelled and dried; pressing keys became painful and slightly torturous. He should’ve stopped; it affected his ability to play the piano, as he concentrated more on not wincing than hitting the keys correctly; and they looked unappealing. Whoever would wish to hold his hands when his fingertips would scratch their hand with a simple brush of their fingers?

And yet he could not stop. When he realised it, occasionally due to the metallic taste of blood hitting his tongue, it was always far too late: his teeth were closed around a nail and it had already frayed.

The worst thing about biting nails: it was pricey. Harry would go to his friend Zayn, who did all sorts of off-the-shelf art in the back of his partner’s bar, including manicure. And since Harry had it in him deep that he had to quit it, he would pay him every time, even if Zayn insisted he didn’t have to or if it was just a single nail he had filed.

He just worried tremendously. Perhaps it was because he’d seen one too many of his friends give up, take their lives; perhaps it was before he thought of Louis in a way he really shouldn’t.

Knowing, of course, had never made it any less sinful, and though he refrained from giving in to that inner demon, sometimes the thoughts crept into his head without his consent and before he could think better of it — before it was too late.

He knew some men could live their lives in secret and happily so — his friends Liam and Zayn, for instance, who shared a house and bed in the instalment above their pub — but such a happy, domestic life was unlikely to be in Harry’s cards. He could barely play a game, anyway. No, Harry was certainly destined to live the life of a hopeless romantic in a world in which his love is criminal; and God, of course, makes no mistakes, so it was a clear sign Harry was not to pursue such silly dreams.

There could be nothing sinful about caring for somebody, though, even if they were of the same sex, Harry was sure. So though Harry didn’t exactly have the time or means to be doing this, he started coming to Louis’ house every day after he realised he was in no mental state to give his own daughters the attention they needed; Mrs O’Brien made sure they had plenty to eat and do, of course, but she had house affairs to do.

“She hasn’t even sent the papers yet, you know. I worry he’ll get even worse when they arrive,” Mrs O’Brien had told him one day whilst she waited for a cake to bake. The girls were at a friend’s house that day, but Harry hadn’t known, so he’d come anyway. Earlier, it had been a little more boring, but he’d resorted to browsing through Louis’ bookshelves and talking with Mrs O’Brien.

“Excuse me, Mrs O’Brien, but I hardly think that’s possible,” Harry had answered sullenly. “He’s as bad as it hopefully gets, wouldn’t you agree?”

She looked down at her tea and sighed deeply. “Well, dearie, unfortunately…” She trailed off, shaking her head slowly and sadly at her tea.

Many a time, neighbours came knocking on Louis’ door, the wife carrying a warm dish in her arms, always saying she missed “dear Mrs Tomlinson, wherever has she gone?;” the curious tilt to her husband’s head giving away what they’d really come from. It was always Harry who opened the door. Louis, naturally, didn’t seem to realise the doorbell had even rung, too wound up in his mind’s demons. Mrs O’Brien would sometimes fight back, reminding Harry that she was paid to do this, but Harry always won, of course; a simple argument that she’d already done so much and that it’s only a door making her step back.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to be so publicly in Louis’ house, for, surely, the rumours would arise, what with his wife gone, but Harry did not allow himself to waste brain cells mulling it over; he just did it. It was a tactic he’d adopted with everything regarding Louis as of late.

Usually, Harry was just curt and no kinder than necessary to the nosey neighbours; they must have a hell of a boring life if their main entertainment is others’, Harry thought.

Things were different with the Cowells.

The first time they’d come, Harry had already strongly disliked them, for no reason in particular; perhaps it was just their unlikeable aura. Like all others, they’d knocked and, upon encountering Harry on the doorway, asked who he was. Per usual, he replied that he was just a family friend. But where others had tried to seem less interested or offer something in return for their needed gossip, Mr Cowell went straight to the point: “Why did she leave him?” he’d asked in a monotonous tone, as though he hadn’t just asked an extremely personal question.

Harry frowned when he looked at him, and perhaps he’d more properly convey his burning anger if his mind weren’t playing, over and over, Louis’ voice telling him that when he frowns he resembles more like a disgruntled kitten.

“That is quite personal, Mr Cowell, and I don’t know myself.” He hoped his tone was more convincing than his perplexion, and it probably was, considering Mr Cowell’s slight flinch at his sharp tone. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll pop this in the fridge so it won’t go bad,” he gestured to the casserole dish Mrs Cowell had handed him earlier. And they were gone.

Upon a second visit, Harry did everything he could not to scowl, instead of painting on a pleasant expression to match his faux tone. “Mr and Mrs Cowell, what a pleasure to see you again.”

“Mr Styles, is it?” Mr Cowell asks, extending a hand to shake Harry’s, the other settled deep in his trouser’s pockets. 

“That’s what my parents told me, at least,” he said, hoping it came out more playful than the strained squeak he heard. “No missus today?”

“What’s that, Styles? I’m looking out for my wife just fine, thanks,” he said in a coltish tone. “She’s with Mrs Tomlinson, actually. It’s Wednesday, I’m sure you’re aware,” he added, much more seriously.

“Oh?” Harry leaned on the door frame; the sign was clear: Mr Cowell was not welcome. “Have they kept in touch, then?”

“Oh, yes. She and my wife had been great friends once, you know. Before Agnes became pregnant with the twins and became busy with that.” Harry hummed in reply. “Could I come in for a smoke?”

Harry blinked a few times in disbelief. “I’m afraid that’s rather untimely, sir. Perhaps some other day.”

Mr Cowell opened a smirk then that Harry would never forget. The tilt of his lips and glint in his eyes made Harry dizzy; in his dishevelment, he had to take a double-take, to check if it hadn’t been Satan’s eyes resting where a man’s should be, but after a second consideration, it turned out to be simply the way Mr Cowell’s gaze was: lifeless, wicked. It shocked Harry when his velvet voice dripped from his mouth, a syrupy, “But I insist on making your acquaintance, Styles. You seem to be important to Louis, as you’re here so much.”

Throat closing in on itself, Harry locked his foot behind the door, keeping it open only a smidge. “I’m sorry, Mr Cowell,” he choked. “I sincerely hope we can continue this some other time,” he lied.

Harry tried to discreetly shut the door, but he accidentally slapped the doorknob whilst bringing his hand down the frame, making it wobble and clank, bringing Mr Cowell’s attention to it. He rested his hand on the door, with just enough of his weight so that it would be more inclined inwards, to open, than shut. “Now, Styles, you wouldn’t want the neighbours to get the wrong impression, would you?” he said in the same sickening faux sweetness as he had used earlier.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand your sublime meanings, Cowell,” Harry spat, putting so much weight on the leg to keep the door semi-closed that he strained with the effort.

“Think about it kid,” Cowell spat. “Nobody knows who you are or where you came from. And suddenly Agnes is gone, and you show up here every day now.” He paused. “Almost as though you’re replacing her,” he finished with a dangerous low whisper.

“I don’t—” he gasped, straining to keep his voice even and his leg set in place. But when Mr Cowell’s words caught up to their meaning in Harry’s head, all his efforts were useless; his whole body lost feeling and he was left fish-mouthing back at him, eyes wide and scared. “I—” he tried again. His throat was closing dangerously fast with his nerves, and the door slowly crept open even though he was sure it was impossible. The entire world had slowed into a blurry and painful drag of events; the only one defying the rhythm was Harry’s heart, which beat out of control, rushing blood through Harry’s ears deafeningly.

He was about to pass out, it was inevitable. His vision had started to blur around the edges and his limbs laid limp and useless beside him — or perhaps still holding up the door, he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t feel anything besides the agonizing pressure on his heart until the floor became suddenly much closer.

*******

Louis had taken to wandering the halls when at home. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t read, couldn’t eat, couldn’t watch TV or listen to the radio. All those activities required to either sit quietly or think hard, or perhaps both; Louis could do neither. So he walked. Fast, slow, loudly, quietly; sometimes he dragged his feet, other times he barely let them touch the ground. It helped him calm the thoughts spiralling in his head.

It had been a clearer day, stray rays of sunlight making their way through the weave of fog in his mind. He had been patient enough to dance, that afternoon.

Louis still wore a delicate smile, the one that only came with improvement and hid the crippling fear of setbacks, and his feet still tapped peacefully to the music that played in his head when he saw him, standing by the entrance.

Harry was a beautiful man. Louis loved his chocolate curls that framed his pink cheeks and accentuated his emerald eyes and wine lips.

Louis halted his steps sharply, making him nearly tumble. He took a deep breath, trying to will the sinful thoughts away. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn't; he shouldn’t. To give in to the sinful ways that had etched their way underneath his skin and made a home out of his misery and misfortune would be weak, would be shameful. He couldn't, he couldn’t, he couldn't; he shouldn’t. And as soon as his mind told him that _it’s okay, they’re just really pretty lips, is all_ he made sure to reprimand himself again, more harshly. He couldn’t, he couldn't, he couldn't; he shouldn’t. He reminded himself that it was dangerous, that it was _wrong,_ that it was a disease; he reminded himself that should he give in, he would bring shame not only to himself but to his daughters, too. It would ruin their lives, their future. He couldn't, he couldn’t, he couldn't; he shouldn’t.

Amidst his internal battle, Harry continued to talk to whoever was outside, by the front door. _Why was Harry even here? Hadn’t he been here yesterday?_ Perhaps he’d simply forgotten yesterday had occurred at all.

The thoughts different than those of self-scold cleared his mind. He slowly tuned into the world around him again; differently than before, in which he only knew that where he’d step was okay, and nothing else. He knew not whether the weather was clear or cloudy, or in which room of his house he was in. It only mattered that he was walking and not tripping.

Now, his peripheral awareness had returned, and entirely all at once; he almost fell from the dizziness. Had his halls always been that _wide_? And the colours so shockingly bright? Doubtlessly, for he could not have been half-blind his entire life without ever noticing.

Right?

Certainly.

To be sure, Harry himself did look different. Pinker. And if there was something Louis was absolutely positive of, is that Harry was rather pasty. Not pink. At least, not when he wasn’t flushed, which did happen quite a bit…

Still a little dizzy, Louis tilted his head to focus better. If it worked for dogs, it’d probably work for him too, he reasoned. And it did, to a degree — it wasn’t good for his dizziness, mind, but it did help with the blurry outlines. With his vision slowly sharpening, Louis was able to tune in to their conversation, Harry’s with whoever was at the door.

First, he noticed the tone: biting and jagged. Male. Old.

It was wildly different than Harry’s — though he didn’t normally sound like he did now. His usually low gravel was high pitched and breathy. Vulnerable and weak. Something was wrong. If only Louis could focus enough to hear the words’ meanings…

He didn’t need to. When Harry began falling, down down down like Alice through the burrow, both slow and fast, Louis ran. He couldn’t feel the carpet beneath his feet, but he felt the vibrations through his legs, deep in his bones, whenever his foot — presumably — hit the floor. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have known he was moving at all. His vision had tunnelled to just Harry and nothing else; nothing else mattered, at this moment.

Catching Harry gracefully and stoically in his arms had been a mistake, a trap: out the door stood Mr Cowell, disgust in his sneer and a knowing look in his eyes.

Realisation hit him hard, and angrily: he had done this to Harry. And he knew. Mr Cowell and himself. He knew that Louis’ entire world lay limp in his arms, and there was nothing he could do; nothing besides cry.

He couldn’t hear his own sobs, but he knew they were loud. He couldn't feel breathing spasm, but he knew it was also happening. And he couldn’t hear his low grumble either, but he could see it in his face and feel it in his skull, rattling madly; Mr Cowell’s last word: _faggots._

Whatever could he reply, if he was right and if the words were true?

*******

He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, but by the time Mrs O’Brien walked in with grocery bags in hand, the easy smile on her face sliding off instantly, his tears had dried. Harry hadn’t yet returned to a conscious state, but he wasn’t dead; his chest rose and fell, slowly, and he’d occasionally twitch his nose or eyelids; beautifully. Louis hadn’t realised he had been gently caressing his cheek and matched their breathing patterns until he was pulled from his numbness with a hand on his shoulder.

He startled, turning his head quickly, his heart rabbiting in his chest.

“Sir?” asked Mrs O’Brien, worry tinting her voice and creasing her eyebrows. “What happened? Is he alright? Are you?”

“Yes. Yes. He’s breathing. I’m breathing.” His voice croaked and barely rose above a whisper; how long had he gone without speaking? It scratched his throat.

“Oh. I hadn’t really… I wasn’t expecting your reply, sir. It’s been a while.” She gently rested her palm on his wrist, pulling away from the hand that tugged his neck without his notice. “I can make you some tea, with lots of honey; I know you dislike it, but it’s necessary. It’ll do wonders to your throat,” she informed him as he tried to protest. “Now, I need to know what happened,” she said much more seriously.

Louis ignored the question. “Where are the girls?”

“Agnes took them. A while ago. They’re rather noisy — it’s not their fault, it just is what it is — and I sensed you needed more quiet calm.” She had thick, thick Yorkshire accent that reminded him of his grandma. She’d died when he was in his early twenties. He missed her, he thought now. Pouting, he remembered he hadn’t even thought of her in a really long time.

“How long?” he asked, and by the way Mrs O’Brien had her mouth open, lips curved around a letter, she’d probably been talking while he thought.

“How long what?” She didn’t seem to mind the interruption.

“Since I’ve not spoken,” he coughed right after saying.

“Two weeks, sir. Not that long. But enough for your throat to dry uncomfortably, I’m sure. Excuse me, I’ve to heat the water.” Her tone was gentle and kind as she got up and tapped her skirt.

When she turned around the hallway, Louis let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, the sensations washing through him again. His tense back relaxed, letting the pain wash through the muscles, the weight of Harry on top of his thighs and arms. If anything, he grounded Louis; otherwise, he’d probably submerge in his mental escape once more. He focused on getting Harry to wake up instead of on himself.

He caressed his cheek, ever so gently; then got distracted by a curl that had stuck to his cheek with sweat, and tangled his finger in the tighter curls. Slowly, slowly, Harry began flickering his eyelids and trembling his lips.

He had berry pink and plump lips, and dimples. He was an ocean: mysterious, timeless, alien. What did Louis know of this person? Why was he in his arms? Why was he so intrigued by his damned cheeks? Because, most importantly, Harry was dangerous.

Perhaps not him, not Harry himself; but in principle, Harry meant danger. It didn’t matter that he looked as dangerous as a plum, the same colour as his thick lips… No, these intrusive, dirty thoughts were wrong. And brought about by this stupidly pretty man, whose dashing smile blinded Louis from everything else. Louis needed out. He needed to get away from Harry, or perhaps in… No, no; that was the opposite of what he needed — that would surely only bring about more sinful desire, and that was not the point. Why would he even think that? Those lips of his, they just had to leave. Up and touch his already, for goodness sakes… No, yet again — they needed to leave the _premises._ The house. Louis’ life. God. It was just hard to concentrate when he was so close, and so, so pretty...

It was probably Louis’ wild shaking of his head as he mentally scolded himself that awoke Harry, which set his perfect lips into a confused frown that led to even more confusion within Louis’ thoughts. Pouting made his lips look so puffy...

“Louis,” he croaked sleepily. “Are you alright?” He, who just passed out, was asking _Louis_ if he was alright. He was crazy, crazy _gentle_. How does one man carry so much kindness, so much softness?

“Harry,” Louis answered, voice as soft as a feather as his thoughts from before slowly but surely went away, forgotten already. “Of course I am. I’m just fine. _You’re_ the one who passed out; I should be asking you this! Stop beating me to it. How are you,” he said, and it didn’t sound like a question because _my darling_ was left hanging in his throat, saved by a last conscious decision that perhaps that would not be so wise. Harry was not his. And their position, there, lying on the floor with butterflies in their eyes and in each other’s arms, it needn’t no acknowledgement.

“I’m good.” His voice was deep, per usual, but it wobbled — not physically, perhaps; it was something Louis just felt in his bones.

Louis did not think of his father, of his peers, of his manliness, when he caressed Harry’s cheeks. He only thought of the distress leaving his brilliant jade eyes and from his tense muscles. He did not dare think of what it meant.

*******

The three had tea over only merry stories, swerving any serious topics. It was what they all needed.

**v.**

“Hey,” Louis said, glancing at Harry for only a small second before he focused on the watches in the glass cabinet below their elbows.

“Oh,” Harry gasped, finally looking away from the bills he was counting. “Louis, what are you doing here?” He couldn’t help but smile broadly, showcasing his dimples. Louis seemed to often get lost in them.

Louis looked down for a second, pensive. When he looked back up, his eyes were empty. “Is this your dream job?” he asked.

It took a beat for Harry to process his question, because how could it possibly? “No,” he breathed. “‘Course not.”

“Then why do you do it? Don’t they say we should do what makes us happy? What makes us feel accomplished at the end of the day?”

Suddenly the conversation felt too personal, too big for a department store, but it was clear that Louis had no intention of moving, not for a while.

Harry sighed. “The reason why everyone else has a job, I presume. I need the money.”

Louis ran a hand through his hair, not looking Harry in the eye. He was kind of frantic, breathing rapidly and unevenly and raggedly, far too agitated for a simple conversation with a store clerk. He wasn’t alright.

Before Harry could say anything more, Louis hissed angrily, and he swore, neither of which Harry had ever seen him do: “This is no fucking way to live.”

And before Harry could agree, could comfort him, Louis mumbled again, determination in his eyes. But perhaps not the kind Harry would like.

Louis nodded at Harry as if that was an appropriate, or sensical, way to end the conversation, and walked fast around the store, picking up loads of food and a travel suitcase. Harry, for the millionth time, was left staring at him, trying to understand what was happening, what he was doing, and he completely ignored other customers.

He finally came to Harry to check out, eyes trained on each item from the moment Harry picked it up till he dropped it in the bag, as if calculating its worth or utility or perhaps to make sure he got. He didn’t explain what he was doing, he didn’t say anything, really. He was a completely different person when he was hyper-focused like this.

*******

A couple of hours later, when Harry finished his shift, he caught a bus to Louis’ street, desperate to know what was going on.

He found Louis frantically running around his house, books and papers and all sorts of things scattered around the floors. And Louis, just in his undershirt and glistening with sweat, stuffing things in suitcases. Harry didn’t allow himself to ogle.

“Louis?” he ventured, not wanting to startle him.

He simply turned and opened a smile. “Oh, hey Harry.” Then he went back to his affairs, dropping the box — that was presumably heavy if the way his biceps were contracting was anything to go by (not that Harry noticed or anything, as that would be inappropriate) — on the floor beside his bags and picking out what he wanted from there.

“So... what are you doing?” Harry asked, taking off his hat and hanging it beside the door.

“Packing.” _You don’t say._

“For what, though?” As much as Harry wanted to sound a bit sassy, a bit playful, he knows that his voice probably came out wobbly; he was scared to know the answer.

“Well, Harry, I’m going away for a bit. I was thinking about what you said, and you’re right. I have money, I don’t have to keep going to work. I don’t even know what I do in there, you know?” He asked, but Harry was just wondering how he got that from what he said earlier.

“Um, okay, Lou. I guess. So, uh, where are you going?”

“Wherever my car gets me! You know, it’s always travelling by plane, by train; but those are so fast! You barely get to enjoy the view, now do you?” He was talking faster than ever before, his accent growing thicker the more he spoke and his packing slopier.

“I suppose. Haven’t travelled that much myself,” Harry said, biting his lip. Louis ought to know only the rich travel, right? Then again, he wasn’t exactly thinking straight at the moment, that was clear.

“Is that so?” He asked, finally looking Harry in the eye — or at least, finally not giving Harry only his shared attention. Harry nodded. “Why don’t you come with, then, Harold?”

Harry was taken back. “What?”

“Yeah, it’d be fun. We can go anywhere you’d like, really, I don’t mind. I’ve travelled loads. And don’t worry about your job,” he added, sensing what Harry was thinking. “I’ve so much money, I don’t even know what to do with it. Besides, it’s not like you love your job either way.”

It wasn’t the prospect of getting away from his job or his peeling flat’s walls or even spending alone time with Louis that sold it for him. (Though it did help, because who was trying to fool?) It was the hopefulness of his voice, the way his usual confidence faltered for a second because he didn’t know what Harry’s answer would be. Because he really did want Harry to come with him.

“That would be lovely, Louis.”

Louis’ entire aura glowed with rejuvenated energy when he jumped up, almost hugging Harry but settling for a handshake half a second later. His eyes’ light only diminished a little bit at his mistake.

“Great! I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nine, then, and we can have an early lunch.”

**vi.**

Harry didn’t own very many things. He packed all his clothes and prized possessions, and left all the rest; the teacups and bedspreads meant nothing to him, after all.

The flat would only be his until the end of the month, in two weeks. After that, he didn’t intend on paying anymore, so he was just abandoning the property. It didn’t matter.

Louis had picked him up half an hour ago. Once the conversation — plans, where they would go, and what they would eat — died, they settled in a comfortable silence, Louis humming to himself along with the radio, Harry using the book opened in front of him as an excuse to be sat in a way that points him directly towards Louis, so that he could just appreciate his beauty, the way the sunlight made his long eyelashes golden and his blue eyes greyer.

It was a gorgeous day. Warm, sunny, with only a few, fluffy white clouds dusting the cerulean sky. As pretty as that was, it was nothing compared to Louis. His hair was styled in a sharp quiff, and he wore a crisp white shirt tucked in his navy shorts, and his white socks covering his shins. He’d been letting his beard grow out lately, at first because he was too out of it to care to shave, but he seemed to like it. Harry liked too. It made his cheekbones glisten in the sunlight, even more so now, when they couldn’t be overshadowed by his sharp jawline.

Harry didn’t dare think of the likes of beard burns.

(When he wasn’t alone.)

***

Louis stopped the car in front of a cafè, saying simply, “I hope you like pancakes.”

Harry did. Who didn’t?

Because it was hot, and a beautiful day, Louis and Harry picked an outdoor table, where they could watch the children of the small town ride down the hill on their bicycles and old ladies walk their dogs.

Louis pulled up a leather journal from his bag and opened to a page with black ink and smudges all over it, as though he didn’t much care or had been in a rush.

“What’s that?” Harry asked in between bites.

“These are a couple things I thought we could do,” he said, pushing the journal Harry’s way.

 _Swim in a lake  
_ _Hike  
_ _Camp_  
 _Ride a bike  
_ _Have a picnic_

Harry scrunched his nose, confused. “You don’t have to do any of those if you don’t want. I just didn’t want to not have any plans,” Louis reassured.

“No, it’s not that… It’s just, these are so simple. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. But I like these. May I add one?” Louis nodded, holding out a pen.

Harry only wrote one word, in slanted handwriting and no caps:

_funfair_

“I like that,” Louis smiled.

They finished their teas in easy quiet, simply looking at one another and at their surroundings.

“What’s your thing against capital letters, then?” Louis interrupted the silence. Harry wondered if that’s what was consuming his thoughts that entire time.

Harry was caught off guard. He had never before been asked that. His cheeks pinkened and his dimple deepened when he answered: “I dunno. I like that my letters are all equal.” Louis frowned his eyebrows pensively. “It’s like, there’s already the annoying ascender and descender strokes — the line that goes down in ‘g’ and up in ‘h’, and both ways for a cursive ‘f’,” he explained, predicting the question on Louis’ lips, “and thick strokes, thin strokes, ovals, and loops! The one thing you _can_ always keep the same is whether or not you capitalise letters. When you don’t, it makes them all look the same — there are no higher ranks or words that stand out for no other reason other than that they’re capitalised. They stand out because they just do.”

Louis had never in his life seen someone talk so passionately about whether to make the first letter of every sentence, and the odd word, bigger than the rest of them; or about any sort of lettering at all. Yet Harry made even him question it, see the beauty in uniform letters all around.

“Besides, who decided which letters to make bigger or not, huh? Because if it was some dude thousands of years ago, why are we listening to him still?” Harry continued, not looking at Louis anymore and the spark in his eyes darkened to something deeper; something almost real. “It’s been so long following those damn rules, and they don’t even matter anymore!” He punctuated the sentence with an aggressive stab at his food.

Louis quirked an eyebrow. “I can definitely see the aesthetic of uniform letters. It looks very pretty, H; you have nice handwriting,” he said, trying to get the dark out of Harry’s usually effervescent eyes. When it didn’t work, he tried again. “Is that what you love, then? Calligraphy?”

Harry finally looked into his eyes again, and they were calmer now. He smiled, tucking the curls that had fallen on his face behind his ear. “I guess so, yeah.”

Louis didn’t say anything back, only nodded, sensing there was more Harry wanted to say.

“I, uh, I wanted to be an artist,” Harry added a beat later. “I sketch. And I take photos when I have film.”

“Why don’t you work at a newspaper then? Where you can take pictures?” Louis asked.

Harry shrugged. “Doesn’t pay as well,” he said simply.

Louis nodded in silence. “What about your sketches?”

Harry tilted his head and smiled, but it was ironic. “What about them? Those who like pencil drawings already have someone fancy that does all their art anyway.”

“That’s not true,” Louis frowned. “That was only a thing in the 19th century and earlier, surely?”

Harry simply took a bite and shook his head. There was still something else he wasn’t telling, Louis was sure; it was clear in the way he changed the subject the second he had swallowed.

He let it go. There was no need to press. It wasn’t that serious.

It’s not like many people love their jobs anyway.

Harry was eternally grateful when Louis accepted talking about other road trip plans.

***

They decided to just drive, leaving things to do along the way and check the boxes as they do them.

“But won’t that take a lifetime? What if in all the highways we drive through, we don’t find a single funfair nearby?” Harry wondered.

Louis laughed, wide, beautifully. Free. “There’s no fun without spontaneity, love.”

He was much lighter these days, since he left his house, and the city. He laughed without restraining his smile or how loud he did. And when he did that, Harry felt encouraged to laugh freely as well. He let his dimples and his crooked, big front teeth show, if only with Louis. It was nice. It was comfortable.

It was right.

**vii.**

It was late evening when Louis stopped the car. He woke Harry with a poke, which he instantly decided was the best decision of his life: it made Harry giggle, dimples out, even if his face was crumpled with sleep.

He’d stopped at a camping site, most other campers already settled and starting their fires as the evening red sun disappeared over the horizon. They didn’t have much time to get their tent ready, so they rushed out of the car.

Harry had never camped before, being a lower-class city boy, and he certainly didn’t expect someone posh like Louis to have either.

“Of course I have. Was a scout, yeh know?” he laughed when Harry voiced his thoughts while he threw a tarp over a cloth held up by poles. After that Louis paused, taking in their tent consisting solely of fabric held up by sticks. “Don’t think I’ll take it as well as then, though,” he sighed, already rubbing his back.

Harry blushed a little, his mind taken somewhere else entirely with that sentence, and blamed it on the fire he was building instead.

***

They were hot and sticky and bug-bitten by morning, more than ready to pack up and leave, when they saw kids walking by in their swimwear.

It took only a glance, with his eyebrows tilted, for Louis to convince Harry to stay a bit longer and swim. It would help with the stickiness, after all.

***

The lake had clearer water than Harry had ever seen before, though it certainly wasn’t any Bahamas. It was a dark teal, nearly green but too blue to get there, and he could even see the dark distortion of bodies underneath it, which would be impossible to see in the seaweed-coloured lakes he’d seen before. It was nice though; there weren’t that many people crowding the sand, only a few kids splashing water as they giggled.

The sand was burning hot and rocky, ruining Louis’ plan to race Harry to the water, as they were rendered to slow crawlers, scared to step on twigs and rocks and other mysterious things that would hurt their feet, while at the same time trying to keep their skin touching the sand for as little as possible, because it stung. They must have looked quite a sight, two adult men attempting to run only to be slowed down to laughing messes of _ouches_ and crumbling limbs.

It didn’t matter to either one what it looked like, because they were happy.

***

The water wasn’t hot like the noon sun would have led one to believe; it was probably that their skin was burning that it felt so cold, taking their breath away when they jumped into it. Seconds later, they regained their composure and they laughed, warm, happy, and free.

When the water turned as warm as themselves, Louis and Harry splashed and swam, not for a second stopping their laughter to breathe.

Louis stopped moving his legs, letting his back welcome the clash into the water, making Harry nearly crash into his chest.

“Louis!” he giggled, lowering himself until only half of his neck and head were out of the water.

“Hey,” Louis said, doing the same. His eyes twinkled mischievously a second later, but Harry had no time to wonder; he was already tripping backwards: Louis pushed his ankles with his legs, and he lost balance.

Louis didn’t let Harry’s nose overflow with water, though; he caught Harry in his arms, not caring for how it looked, for how many people surrounded them.

“Hey there,” he whispered. Through the crashing waves and children giggling, there was no way for Harry to hear him; he read the words on his lips.

His eyes darkened, but kept the breath that left his mouth easy: “Hi.”

“Any chance the damsel in distress might enjoy some ice cream?”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Who are you calling princess?” he complained, with no real heat behind it; in fact, though he hated to admit it, his heart thrummed loudly, racing the lake in overpowering loudness. “I’d love some,” he replied nonetheless. 

Louis smiled, the real kind that made his eyes crinkle and his eyes bright and bluer. The kind that made Harry weak in the knees. The kind that, as pure as it looked, somehow hid a sombre, sometimes playful, smirk, in the very back, so one would have to look very deeply to see.

It was Harry’s favourite.

***

Much to Harry’s disappointment, the creamery did not allow topless customers, so they had to go into the bathroom to change into dry clothes. Harry didn’t complain much because their shorts were uncomfortably soaked anyway.

Once in the shop, Louis told Harry to pick them a table; he’d get the cones.

“What flavour would you like?”

“Just vanilla,” Harry shrugged. “With chocolate sauce.”

Louis blinked at him. “What? Are you sure?”

Harry’s cheeks reddened, but he nodded. Louis just shrugged and turned around. He came back five minutes later with two cones in hand: one with green ice cream and black dots, presumably mint chocolate chip, and one with a cream-coloured scoop with artful lines of thick chocolate.

“A vanilla ice cream cone for you,” he said, bowing slightly. Harry blushed through his already-reddened cheeks from the sunlight. Louis winked at him and sat in front of Harry.

“No toppings for you, Mr Fancy?” Harry asked once he regained his composure.

“Nah,” Louis said in-between licks. “Mint chocolate chip is the star. There’s no need to obfuscate it with cheap sprinkles. Or anything else, for that matter,” he scrunched his eyebrows a tad, pointing at Harry with his unused spoon.

Harry hummed in response, noting that this was probably not the first time Louis had defended his choice, either.

“I have to admit, though,” Louis broke through the silence. “Your zebra ice cream does look rather appetising.”

Harry quirked a teasing eyebrow, leaning into his forearms over the table. “Mh. Does it?” he said, then licked it slowly. He’d meant to show how good it was, but with the way Louis blushed and his eyes darkened, Harry suddenly saw himself from an outsider’s point of view, sitting at a table for two with a handsome man and leaning ever so close, making inappropriate innuendo in a family-friendly creamery. He shut his mouth quickly.

“Right,” Louis said, his voice deeper than before — and it was so detached; he probably didn’t even know he was speaking. “Well, uh, anyway….” He stumbled to speak, and no one, Harry thought, had the right to blame Harry for being a little bit proud, as wrong as it was. Louis closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again, voice still dark but more certain. “We should get the car then.”

“Yes,” Harry licked his ice cream again. “Oh! We should get bikes. It’s lovely and flat around here.”

Louis and Harry came out of the vintage shop they found fitting pastel bikes through the door — baby blue and mint green with woven crates in the front. Harry imagined his filled with colourful bouquets of flowers, biking slowly so their petals would merely dance with the breeze, only enough to get their smell to his nose and leave a trail behind him.

But whatever would he be doing with flowers? Pretty, lovely, _girly_ flowers? He couldn’t come up with a single proper reason.

**viii.**

The sun was high up in the sky, blazing over vast green fields and their residing animals, bathing in the rare light. From the thin road, the houses looked tiny; small dots of colour on the brilliant, never-ending grass.

“Would you like a home-cooked meal?” Louis asked, fixing a lit cigarette in between his thin, berry lips. When he looked down, the light played with his long eyelashes, turning them golden.

“Wherever would we find such courtesy?” Harry snatched the cigarette right from Louis’ lips, took a drag, and held it out to blow out the smoke, all the while sporting a cheeky grin. “Hm?”

Louis took the cigarette from his mouth, balancing it in between the long fingers stirring the wheel. He’d looked away when Harry blew smoke. “My mum lives nearby. Well — as nearby as it gets, when houses are more than fifteen acres apart, huh?”

Harry chuckled, thinking _oh, how rich people are._ But he was enamoured nonetheless. “How do you know she’s not busy? Entertaining guests of her own? Away?”

“Well, I suppose there’s no way to know. But I’m told I’m welcome anytime — surely such a promise still holds when other people are there too?”

He shrugged. “Very well.”

***

Half an hour later, Louis pulled up at a cement driveway, the vastness of the open grass surrounding them allowing sole focus on the gorgeous baby blue house at its end.

The parking space allowed for roughly ten cars.

“Your mum parties a lot?” Harry snickered slightly, scared that perhaps he’d offend Louis, but he only smiled.

“I don’t think she gets visitors often, no, but when she does, it’s usually a lot. Christmas and birthdays and such,” he shrugged. Then, a second later, “I did mention I have five sisters, yes? And a baby brother.”

Harry let his mouth fell open. “There are babies? And you didn’t tell me?” he gaped, assuming a poorly-convincing look of indignance. Louis merely laughed at his efforts.

“Yes,” is all he replied, then got out of the car and put out his third cigarette of the trip, waiting for Harry to join him.

The rest of the walkway was thin and paved, but still fit two people comfortably side by side. Oil lamps sat every few centimetres on each side, and were presumably lit at night.

The ornate wooden doors were centred, bushes of colourful flowers on each side of it; to the right, a tall bay window with pearl, frilly curtains covering the top glass and bits of pillows visible from the bottom. On the top floor there were only smaller windows — bedrooms, Harry thought. From behind the house and well into the acres of grass, there were sounds of girls’ shrieks and giggles.

Louis walked up to the doors and rang the doorbell. A young man with tall, tawny hair and watery blue eyes — very unlike Louis’effervescent sapphires, but appealing, Harry supposed, to some — pushed both doors open with the tips of his gloved fingers. His posh look vanished as soon as he saw who’d rung the bell.

“Louis!” he squealed, in an already-evident Irish accent, and took Louis in his tux-clad arms. “Long time no see! Where’ve you been, lad?”

Louis, who had been beaming the entire time, suddenly went quiet, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, you know… Work, the kids, the, uh… Garden.” Niall furrowed his eyebrows but dropped the subject nonetheless. He knew, Harry realised — Niall’s lips were curled in condolence, but very subtly.

“Hm. Well, Alma’s missed you too, come in,” he gestured towards the house. It was then that he noticed Harry, standing rather awkwardly behind Louis. “Oh! Sorry ‘bout that, lad! I’m Niall Horan, the Deakin’s butler,” he bowed slightly. Harry would’ve chastised Louis for not telling him his mother did not share his surname, but he supposed another time would be best.

“Harry Styles. A friend of Louis’,” he smiled.

“Of course. I apologise for my manners, not introducing the both of you! Pardon me, Harry,” Louis said.

Harry simply shook his head with a light smile and asked, “Who’s Alma?”

“My lovely wife, and fellow coworker; in fact, the _real_ worker of this household. She does it all, sir, I just open the door.”

“Oh please, Horan, she’s wonderful, yes, but need I remind you that you also do the hard work of serving food? Hm?” he turned to Harry, “Real hard work right here,” he exaggerated, winking dramatically at Harry, who laughed.

“Anyhow, Jay is tending her rose garden and looking after the girls. Alma’s preparing tea. Welcome home, Lou.”

Louis tapped on Niall’s back fondly. “Thank you. I’ll show Harry around.”

They walked into pearly floors on which their shoes, if they had wood on the soles, would make a lovely clopping. Directly in front of the door was a mirror, round with a florid golden frame, placed over a thin table attached to the wall rather than standing on its feet, which were only for decorative purposes. To the left was a simple stairwell, and to the right, a living room. A sofa the same shade of blue as the house was pointed to the modern electric fireplace on the wall, a small white table with golden details on the side sitting right in front of it. The bay window to its right appealed much more to Harry, the sky blue pillows contrasting well with the green of well-kept lawn.

Walking further into this room, Harry found a single step, and balconies only hitting the height of his waist near the walls, making a wide entrance leading to another living room. This one had three armchairs, all slightly tilted to face the sofas a step down. Right in front of Harry and Louis were glass panels, which opened to a small four-people table on a deck, where a lady in a baby lilac hat and dress read, unaware of their wandering eyes.

Louis made no motion to say hello to the woman just yet, simply continuing with the tour by walking into the kitchen a few steps to the right.

It was all white, with a balcony in the middle and a window in front of the sink, and though no different than any other kitchen, there was just an air to it that oozed settled exuberance. Not for show; for living.

From the kitchen there was a passageway to the dining room, which was surrounded by glass all around, capturing every ray of precious sunshine available. There were a few plants falling beautifully from their hung vases like a fountain of water, the green popping against the white pillars in between glass panels. Then Louis guided Harry out the dining room and kitchen and out into the living room, then turned to the back of the stairwell Harry had seen earlier, where a descending set of stairs stood. Where what Harry had thought would be the basement, was actually a gigantic indoor pool, the glass doors all pulled opened to allow the warm summer breeze through. Harry couldn’t help the gasp he let out. They walked around the pool and out the doors into the lawn, which was when Harry noticed just how vast it really was. There were miles and miles of clear, groomed grass, slowly sloping until the tip of the property, where tall trees marked the border.

Near the house, in a symmetrical patch of dirt, was a rose garden. There were roses of every colour in it, placed harmonically so that they formed a rainbow, slowly becoming the colour beside it. Louis tsked.

He went up the outdoor stairs, glued to the house, and sighed at the woman still sitting there. She wasn’t at all startled, though it was unlikely she’d heard them; they’d been so quiet. She was just used to people popping up around her, Harry thought, what with so many children.

“I was wondering when you’d come to say hi,” she said in her calm, honey voice, closing her book and putting it down on the table in front of her.

“Oh, you see, Mum, I was told you’d be in the rose garden. Imagine my surprise to find you here instead, no rose on sight?” By the end of his light-hearted spiel, his hands were on his waist, one foot stretched out — a pose he’d often adopt when in serious banter.

The woman merely laughed, used to her son. “Well darling, who’s this?” she motioned vaguely towards Harry.

“I’m Harry Styles, Mrs Deakin. A friend of Louis’.” She stood to shake his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, darling. Please call me Jay.” She winked, and it was the same way Louis did. Then she settled back in her chair and gestured for Harry and Louis to do the same. “So, darling, what brings you here?”

The question was light, and surely expected, but Louis tensed nonetheless. He fiddled with his shirt’s buttons, the only thing to fiddle with, really, until he gave up, leaning back on his chair and fitting his foot on top of his knee.

“Well, Harry and I are on a kind of trip, see. After, uh,” he fiddled more, not looking at his mother in the eye.

Meanwhile, Harry was slowly coming to senses that Louis came here to tell his family he’s a divorced man, and he brought a single man they’d never seen before with him. His breathing rapidly sped, his arm veins becoming more and more noticeable, and a tad bit gruesome, purpling a little.

“Harry!” Jay suddenly brought him back. She was now beside him, where Louis had been sitting, with her hand clutching his arm tightly. Based on her tone, it was not the first time she’d called his name — and probably not the second or third, either. “Are you alright, darling?” Harry nodded, but the world swirled with the motion, so he grimaced. “Louis’ bringing you some water, love.” Louis. Did he have time to tell his mum before Harry stole the show? “You’ll be fine darling, relax. Relax,” she begged, running a soothing hand up and down his lower arm.

Louis came back seconds later carrying a sweaty glass of water, which he force-fed Harry — guessing, correctly, that his arm would be too wobbly to hold anything. “Breathe, Harry, breathe,” he’d say, loving and patient and kind as always. It was probably in confusion that Harry mixed up muttered words like _my darling_ and _my love,_ pulling them out of context from Louis and Jay’s conversation. Surely.

Once he was able to hold the glass of water for himself, Harry shooed Louis’ arm away, after profoundly thanking them for their kindness, of course; he didn’t want to be any more of a burden. When Harry was even participating in conversation every now and then, a young girl trudged up the stairs, long, caramel brown hair like her brother’s.

“Louis!” she shrieked, and he jumped up from his chair to hug her tightly.

“Hey, Lots,” he said, voice muffled by her shoulder, his voice muffled with her shoulder.

After her, came six other children, of a startling variety of ages, all of whom held Louis like he was their saviour and immediately engaged in warm conversation with Harry. His worries from before still lingered, but they were much subsided after he discovered a pair of baby twins to entertain.

Eventually, the sky went from blue to yellow, morphing into a deep red on the horizon. That was when a pale brunette stepped out silently onto the deck and collected the small children from Harry’s lap, to take them to bed.

“Hi,” she said to Harry in a dulcet, though tired, voice. “I’m Alma.” She fixed the toddler she was carrying securely on one arm and extended a hand for Harry to shake.

“Harry,” he said, a smile on his face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

***

Perhaps it was irrational, but Louis felt Harry was just too friendly, giving this girl he’d never met before his most cherubic smile, so wide his eyes crinkled. And though Harry wasn’t his — could never, _would_ never be — jealousy had made its way to his frown, and to his fisting hand, long before he became conscious of the fact.

Before he could stop himself — before he could thoroughly think it through — he’d stood up beside Harry, placing an oddly familiar hand on the small of his back that, should he had noticed the rest of his family looking pointedly at the detail, right behind him, he’d have recoiled; as it was, he stood slightly possessively beside the object of his affection, glaring at a _married friend_ from childhood _,_ who was not only that but also _married to his best friend._ It was far too late to back out once he’d realised how stupidly he was acting. The only thing he could do was put his hand back in his pocket, pretending he’d only reached out for support, and softening his expression for Alma, who was staring with wide eyes.

“Hi, love. It’s been too long.”

She gave him an oddly knowing smile but shook his hand nonetheless. “Yes, it has, Lou.” She settled on her kitten pumps, which had actual cat ears at the toes. “I, uh, Ni told me about Agnes. I’m really sorry,” she added quietly. Then her eyes twinkled and her lips twitched apologetically. Her eyes softened when she turned to the other toddler and made grabby hands for him to reach, and walked out, whispering fondly “Say goodnight, kids,” to the toddlers. And she left, swaying in her baby blue dress.

Louis flushed from head to toe, not looking anyone in the eye as he sat back down.

Often adults get mad at children for not knowing when it is time to stop, or wait, or continue. Right then, it was a blessing that Félicité, only just a teen, cut through the tension with a question.

“What’s she saying ‘bout Agnes, Lou?”

“We’re divorcing.” He said it so matter-of-factly that all the questions in five curious children’s eyes were held back, a fact well known to those who have ever dealt with children in sticky situations to be nearly impossible.

Louis only let the heavy silence last for the duration of his chewing. “Well, it has been lovely to visit you Mum, girls. But we best be off now; lots of places to go.” He stood up and fixed his collar unnecessarily, then went around the table kissing foreheads and excused himself to bid farewell to Niall, Agnes, and the baby twins.

In ten minutes, all the sisters had trickled away to their rooms, leaving Harry alone with Jay.

It was only then that she spoke: “So, Harry, how did you and Louis meet?”

“I’m the twins’ piano tutor.”

She hummed in response. “How did you two decide to go on this trip together then?”

Harry merely shrugged. “It just kind of happened.” She just nodded back, but her eyes weren’t convinced.

**ix.**

The wind brushed through the golden fields of wheat, endless till the bright blue horizon line; the car chomped through the pavement and its white and yellow lines and the gravel, disappearing at the curve of the windshield where glass met steel. Harry, restless in the passenger seat, had scavenged every inch of this car and found not a single book to read, not a single thing to distract him from Louis’ cheekbones. Not even music would do — they were too far from the city for radio signal.

“Fancy a break, love?” Louis broke in.

Harry startled. He hadn’t expected — nor wanted — Louis to notice. “Oh,” his cheeks warmed, “if possible.”

“It’s no problem, Harry. There’s a park nearby.”

***

The grass glistened in the sunlight, with its reminiscing dewdrops. Below was a rocky shore leading to a clear lake lined with slippery mossy stones.

“I bet that water’s freezing,” Louis commented, arms crossed and legs parted, pointing towards the water with his chin.

“You think so?” Harry crouched near the water.

“Yes. In fact, I _dare_ you to dip your toes on it.” Harry liked the way his lips curled with mischief.

“Why would I do that?” _Because Louis asked,_ but he wasn’t about to let Louis know about his utter powerlessness to him.

“Why wouldn’t you?” Harry raised his eyebrows, a silent _fair enough_ , and took his shoes and socks off. (He ignored, for that one minute, that he loathed the crooked shape of his feet.)

Determined to get Louis in the cold water, Harry faked indifference when he slowly raised one leg off the rocky sand and touched the lake. Unsurprisingly, every hair in Harry tingled with its frigidness, but he took a deep breath and looked back to Louis, urging his skin not to goosebump.

Louis raised an eyebrow, arms still clasped and legs still spread, eyes still cocky. Harry cracked his toes and raised a brow of his own, with a slight cheeky twist of his neck — _daring_ Louis. He walked over, expression not moving an inch, while Harry found a place to put his feet on the bumpy terrain where it wouldn’t hurt. He had to rub his feet across the lake’s lining, because the water was too dense to see through.

“I think you’re bluffing,” came a sharp rasp near his neck. Harry turned slightly to see Louis lighting a smoke in between his lips, eyes flicking to Harry’s before stuffing his hands back in his pockets.

“Why do you think that?”

Louis laughed, bubbly surprised by his boldness, but still bemusedly; breathy laugh around the cigar. “I can see every one of your hairs stand up, love,” he all but whispered, far too close to Harry’s skin. Harry wanted to say that that wasn’t the water, that was _him_ and his flirtatious teasing that drove Harry absolutely mad.

In fear of moaning, right there in public, Harry breathed a heavy _“oh.”_ It barely scraped above a groan.

“Hm?” Harry hated that he could hear Louis’ delight in a short sound — not even one word. “Is that your tell?”

“Uh,” Harry lost his balance, his arms flailing by his side. Louis wasn’t about to let that stop him: he just settled him with an easy hand on his hip, the other around a cigarette.

“Is it?”

“I, uh, can’t lie. At all.” Harry also couldn't breathe properly at the moment.

“Ooh, interesting,” Louis takes a drag. “So is it? Freezing?”

Harry bit his lip and looked everywhere but Louis’ eyes, stammering, until finally he relented. “A little.”

“I’ll take it,” he shrugged. Before Harry could process his words, Louis opened his fingers and let the cigarette butt fall to the sand, stomped it, and unbuttoned his shirt.

“Are you really?” Harry gasps.

“I’m not gonna be stopped by some silly lack o’ heat, boyo.” He dropped his shirt and cleared his pockets, laying his wallet, keys, and lighter over his clothes, which he’d simply straightened and folded in fourths, instead of properly folding. “You coming or what, princess?” he yelled right before diving head-first.

“Dunno who you’re talking to, honestly,” Harry murmured, blushing and obliging. Harry walked to where the lake water met his tiptoes and shouted at Louis, who lounged on his back already. “Were you going to go in either way?”

“Yep,” he shouted back happily. Harry shook his head fondly and went in, slow steps saving him from slipping on the mossy rocks pathing the lake floor.

The water was just on the right side of clear for Harry to see the stones at the bottom if he squinted with undisputable attention, and if it was still. For it to not form endless rings around his legs, he had to move very slowly and squint hard. Which was how, in between one step and the other, Harry found himself staring at a face, bloated and reddened with the water, hairs darker and thinner than usual, underwater. In his startle Harry screamed, the sound echoing and coming back to his ears a blaring ring, at which point he slipped back.

“Woah, there, Princess,” Louis purred, looking down at Harry, his hand on Harry’s back — a lush, aquatic Tango, with birdsong and waves as music and sea life and critters as the audience, just as it should always be.

“Hi,” Harry was barely able to move his jaw with his shivers and his smile locking it in place.

“Hello,” Louis drawled back, and it was the most sensual of sounds.

In his lust Harry forgot that the sky is blue, the grass is green, and that men marry women. He forgot that he hid, he forgot that it was wrong. In that moment, he was simply himself.

Happy. Free.

In love.

And as love goes, all he wanted was to let the entire world know that he was in love with the man holding him close and nothing would ever make him happier. He wanted to let _him_ know that he was in love with the way he blinked and chewed and how he spoke; with the way he moved and gesticulated, and even with the way his voice curved around pet names, fondness curling the hard edges of phrases so that they never hurt. 

Drunk in lust, Harry’s gentle fingers brushing Louis’ cheek trailed down to where his neck met his shoulder and knit his fingers tightly behind his neck, with all the force necessary to keep them safe.

And when he felt most secure in his grip, in his love, Harry leaned up and connected their lips in a searing kiss.

They both pushed and bit and pulled like their life depended on the energy the kiss would produce, but as charged as it was, as tight as their grips on each other got, there was not a drop of sexual need; at that moment, there was only love. Relief, tinged with the ever-present fear, and love. Pure, sincere love.

***

The water vibrated, rings of movement stretching around Harry and Louis wider and wider and wider until they disappeared from sight, new ones replacing those who’d retired. The water lapping at their ears sloshed and shushed and hummed, its usual mystic music clinking at their skin and bones, juddering with their shifting.

Harry stretched his neck an inch, still held tightly by Louis’ arm around his chest, and breathed a perfect ring of smoke into the fresh, crisp air.

“Wherever did you learn to smoke?” Louis took the cigar from his fingers and put it between his lips.

Harry turned so that he could look into Louis’ eyes and brush his fingers through his collarbones. His smile turned cheeky and his eyelashes fluttered to say: “You see, rich men love to smoke. And I love rich men,” punctuated by stealing it right from Louis’ mouth before he could take a drag, carding his finger at the seams of his tailored shorts.

As soon as the smoke left his lips, Louis’ mouth was on his, a possessive, helpless twinge to the kiss.

And, as always, a hint of fear. (At this moment it was so little that if they kissed hard enough, it almost faded away, it was almost subsided.

If they ignored it hard enough, maybe it would ignore them right back.)

Harry only pulled only back once, chest rushing to catch up on air again just to whisper: “You’re gorgeous.” He would finish: _let me tell you every day?_ but his lips were found incapacitated, muffled by another desperate set of lips.

The kiss was sweet until Louis’ hands lowered on Harry’s hips, who immediately took a ragged breath in anticipation, and Louis’ lips on his turned up in a smirk.

Instead of teasing, Louis knocked a leg behind Harry’s, throwing off his already precarious balance. Instead of moaning, they were laughing, coughing out water.

When he was stable again, Harry tried to do the same on Louis, but he just laughed (a gorgeous laugh with crinkles, his head thrown back), and stayed exactly where he had been. He tsked. “I’m smart, lad, got my feet firm on the ground,” he adjusted his legs to part slightly. He laughed even more (just as beautifully as before, and every other time he’d laughed genuinely) when Harry pouted.

“Shh, none of that,” he whispered, and kissed the pout right off his lips; Harry melted into it instantly.

“I like that,” Harry murmured when they parted.

“What?” Louis’ eyes flew from one eye to another.

“Kissing you,” he punctuated by pressing their lips in a final peck before he parted, eyes mischievous, and shouted: “Race you to the car!” and bolted (or, well, as fast as one can bolt it thick water).

When they got closer to the shore, the slippery rock lining made Harry lose his head start.

“Heeey!” he shouted through a giggle when Louis passed by him.

“What, you a sore loser?”

Harry didn’t reply, just squinted at the water and kept going, arms occasionally spasming when slipped or nearly lost his balance. He was entirely focused on getting out of the water, so much that he didn’t listen for the tell-tale signs of water moving around Louis.

Finally, Harry exhaled, smiling wide as his feet crossed the border and he looked up — and then he found not Louis’ eyes, but a camera, one of those expensive ones that recorded sound and everything, and it was big enough to cover more than half of his face. (It did not, in fact, hide his grin, as it was so large that the dimple on his right cheek that only made an appearance on _very_ special occasions.)

Harry had never been the subject of a video before, and didn’t know what to do — he knew he blushed fiercely, but the black and white would hide that; it wouldn’t hide his visible shyness, though. He just waved, a little contained, and Louis waved back from behind the lens, and then shifted it away from his face and fiddled with a couple of buttons, then set it on its case that lay by his feet on the rocky sand. He walked over to Harry, and wordlessly extended a hand for him to grab, smile still wide; a little shyer.

“It’s too windy for it to pick up much sound anyway,” he explained, circling a finger that wasn’t intertwined in Harry’s around in the air as if pointing to the wind that enveloped them all around. It wasn’t very windy — only enough to move a few of Harry’s curls and cause small ripples on the water, so weak they disappeared too soon to even be replaced by the next batch of breeze.

“So what’re we doing next?” Harry mumbled, their bodies close enough that Louis heard him just fine.

“Mh. Let’s look for a funfair, what d’you think?”

“Alright. I want a shower, though.”

Louis lilted, his hand finding its way to the small of Harry’s back to fiddle with the cloth there. “Excellent choice.”

***

Tired, sweaty, and sandy, they made a pit stop at a motel, slightly less luxurious than what Louis was accustomed to but plenty more than any other Harry had ever slept in.

Louis was quieter than usual in the lift, but Harry assumed he was simply a little perplexed at having to carry his own luggage to his room, and tired from driving all day. By now it was late evening, the near-dusk sky a gorgeous gradient from lilac to violet, and Louis had put on his cobalt jumper that had been tied loosely around his neck earlier — _“I get cold easy, Harold, lay off,”_ he’d grumbled whilst fixing the collar. He’d simply glared when Harry pointed out that he’d take it off for a shower too soon to be worth it anyway.

Mostly, Harry was preoccupied with his own thoughts: things between them had shifted, but they hadn’t discussed it. Harry’s never _had_ to talk about it before — when he met men he kissed, they were already in a setting where they knew that was what the other expected; they knew they wouldn’t talk about it. But with Louis, things were different: he didn’t seem to know what he wanted, at least not consciously, but he did know _how_ he wanted things to go, as much was clear in the way he moved Harry’s limbs to kiss him just the way he’d pictured, in the way he moved and stood and talked, even: always certain, always critical of the way things were going even he wasn’t an expert. That was not to say Louis was one to talk out of his arse or get in businesses that weren’t his; he just hated not to know things, so he observed, and learnt, and then applied.

He knew how _he_ wanted to be, so he bent the world around him so it’d fit — more precisely, the world bent itself, all willingly, just to see a pleased smile on Louis Tomlinson’s face.

Harry didn’t blame the world. He’d do the same if Louis asked him to. He’d do whatever it took.

***

Louis took a shower first. Harry convinced him to, and after being reminded of the long, stiff drive, he agreed. That left Harry to lay on the lush white bedding, ankles crossed and hands lightly clutching over his sacral chakra, pensive eyes stuck to the stained bumps on the popcorned ceiling. Whenever he drove himself to near insanity — by thinking about talking to Louis, wondering what exactly he was doing with his life, et cetera — he thought about why the ceiling had yellow splotches. Maybe the owners didn’t sleep in these beds and hadn’t noticed that it was an odd shift in the luxury of the place. Perhaps they were quirky and thought it gave the room character. And, when he began thinking about his own life again, the thoughts stained: _perhaps they didn’t care at all, because there was no stupid reason to. It was just a ceiling._

Louis walked out, shirtless and glistening, a towel skirt wrapped around his middle, to a very tight-faced Harry. “Why are you mad at the ceiling, love?” His chest was tanned golden from spending the day under the sun.

Harry let out a sharp, kitten puff through his knitted brows and grumbled, “It’s yellowed. And popcorned.” He hopped off the mattress with his pout and left Louis very confused, if not a little amused.

(In the shower, he banged his head against his arm laid out on the cold wall, wondering why he’d been so dramatic and let Louis think he was pissed over a sodding _ceiling.)_

“Hey,” Louis clucked when Harry got out of the shower, dropping his book closed beside him, denting the sheets.

“Hi,” Harry bit his lip.

“Er, what do you, uh, think caused the stains?” Louis squinted his eyes as if surprised that was what came out of his mouth. “On the ceiling.”

“I dunno. Didn’t think about that.”

“Oh.” He scattered through his brain for something, _anything_ to say.

“Why are we talking about the ceiling?”

Louis flopped on the bed, metallic springs creaking below him, the sound muffled by the mattress. His cheeks were dark pomegranates held up against light grey clouds, with a single ray of sunlight peeking from behind them in sky eyes. “I dunno,” he muttered.

Harry bit his bottom lip and sat at the end of his bed, facing Louis. Louis’ breathing hitched a little when Harry fixed a foot underneath one of his legs — his pyjamas were simple white shorts, and his thighs were muscled and defined. And it was like this, mind half sinning, that he choked, barely above a breath: “There are a thousand reasons why we shouldn’t.” He wasn’t talking about the ceiling, but he kind of hoped maybe Harry would take it that way.

Harry’s chest rose to its fullest, slowly. He was silent for a long time before he murmured, almost to himself: “But what about the reasons why we should?” He thought Harry didn’t _want_ to be heard, so he simply mewled over the words, pulling skin from the inside of his mouth until it almost hurt; and then Harry sat on his bed, against the light so that all Louis could see was the silhouette of his curls, at an angle that let Louis know he wasn’t looking him in the eyes. Then he spoke, soft words rasping against the air like autumn leaves flying, invading summer one auburn hue at a time: “Can you hold me?” In response Louis raised his duvet, opening a safe cave for Harry to crawl into, the walls made of warm blankets and Louis’ arms and body.

Louis pressed soft lips to the back of his neck, pulling him tighter into his chest and burying his face by his curls. How could he go to hell for kissing another man when it feels like heaven?

The tears that fell traced burning pathways into his skin, gathering by his nose bridge in a pool of salt, dripping in between strands of chocolate curls, like dew in spiderwebs; unexpected dots of light in the darkness.

Despite the tears, Louis smiled wider with every second, so much that his muscles stung.

***

Louis woke up first, with the golden sunlight marking the shape of the glass against the drapes. He kissed Harry where his lips found themselves: first the back of his neck, and then trailing from the back of his neck to where Louis had his weight on his forearms, Harry squirming below him with dimples and eyelids shut, stretching his neck wide for Louis.

Finally, Louis made his way up to his ear lobe, nipping it lightly, pleased when Harry’s breath hitched, then took the path of his jaw to find his lips.

“Hi,” he whispered between pecks.

“Morning,” Harry croaked.

Louis beamed. “I like this.”

“What?”

Louis smirked, mischievous lips contrasting with his fond eyes. “Kissing you.” He plucked any response right from Harry’s mouth into his own.

**x.**

The next week was an endless sunrise, comfort growing between the two the more they kissed softly in the morning and heatedly at night.

In-between they sneaked softness in plain sight: holding hands when alone under the stars, pecking in abandoned parks with their picnic food below them, looking at each other for the simple pleasure of watching them be, stealing touches in libraries — be it the brush of fingers against book spines or trailing a nail down the other’s spine, only half-distracted from the tease.

And lewdness: taking the finger far too low down the road of the backbone, biting each other’s earlobes while breathing heavily into it, ogling at each other’s dripping bodies as they made their way out of the water.

For a week, it was magical, before Louis told Harry what Agnes had said.

 _Faggot._ She knew. She had known about Harry, and she knew about Louis, and his life would be ruined. He tried telling him: “Lou, she’ll use that against you in court! You’ll be labelled a pervert. They’ll try to convert you, Lou, and it doesn’t work! It doesn’t! It just kills off everything that makes a person human, and it still doesn’t work. They could even arrest you for sodomy! Lou, you’ll not be able to see your daughters.”

But Louis would always just sigh out the smoke of his cigarette, and wrap Harry in his arms. Swaying to grainy slow music, Louis kissed him, on his mouth, his cheeks, his nose, and whispered words of encouragement. “It’ll be okay.” “As long as I have you.” “Shh.”

But sometimes he tore too, face into Harry’s shoulder as he choked muffled cries: “They wouldn’t want a father like this anyway…”

With each spilt teardrop, from either one, Harry became surer of his plans.

The problem was doing it: Louis held on so tightly to Harry, even in his sleep. When Harry’s back was to Louis’ chest, he held him around his stomach and locked him with his chin to his shoulder blade; when they slept front to front, he dug his nails into Harry’s back. And in strong, gentle arms, ears pressed against Louis’ heartbeat, he couldn't bring himself to go through with it.

He spent a good portion of each night in Louis’ arms considering, nearly doing it but never quite, stopped by the way Louis’ heart beat a little faster, or his breath hitched, or he pulled Harry closer.

Maybe he didn’t have to, after all…

***

Then came the day when they were walking side by side on the street, heading to a bakery. There wasn’t anything off about it, neither one thought, but when they walked in, cheeks hurting from laughing so much, the man cleaning the counter glared at them, didn’t even greet them.

They glanced at each other in confusion, smiles fading, but ordered the baguette they wanted anyway.

The man picked Louis’ money, still seemingly torn between glaring or ignoring them. “You’re standing awfully close,” he finally said, tone as if he’d asked about the bad weather. But only on the surfaced; he was clearly boiling underneath that facade.

“Pardon me?” Louis immediately stilled his fingers that had been tapping the table rhythmically.

The man grunted, annoyed at having to repeat himself. “You two,” he darted a thick finger at the space between them.

Louis just blinked. “Right… Uh, bye,” Louis flicked his wrist in a less than a half-hearted wave, still confused.

The baker cleared his throat, and Louis and Harry turned their heads back to him. “Go to church. Get some help. This ain’t the place, alright?”

“What?” he wasn’t asking, his piercing tone said it all. Louis had turned his whole body by then, brows knitted tightly. 

“C’mon, Lou,” Harry tugged at his shirt. He didn’t know Louis _that_ well, didn’t know if he was the type to throw punches — if he did, he’d drag Harry into it all with him, and the police wouldn’t reasonable. “Please,” he begged, only loud enough for Louis to hear.

The clerk sneered at the motion. “Please leave.” His hand was already tapping the wall beside him, trying to find the telephone far too low on the wall.

Louis stilled. He wasn’t fuming; his anger was very settled. He handed the bag with the loaves of bread to Harry, fixed the sweater wrapped around his shoulder, and walked, calmly, to the counter. When he got there, he put one hand in his pocket, and with the other, gesticulated: it went from scratching his stubble to gesturing sharply to the chubby man. He was speaking quietly, dryly, darkly; the only things Harry could pick up from where he was paralysed by the door were whispers, rasps perforating the heavy air with thick sweetness — with bittersweet honey.

While Louis spoke, the baker eyed him in disgust, clutched the phone tighter and tighter, furrowed his eyebrows lower and lower. The muscle near his lips twitched in quick succession every so often, but his expression was frozen like that: mad parchment. The interaction lasted only a few seconds, but its density clung to every smell of bread that dared leave the kitchen. It spread.

Then Louis came strolling towards Harry, as though to calm the baker with his tranquillity — but his lips were still tight. Otherwise, he was indeed neutral, and opened the door for them to leave.

“Louis, that was dangerous. What did you even tell him? He could call the police, Lou. Could be calling them right now!” Harry hissed as they stepped away, bag swinging in his arm.

“Told ‘im to fook off, ‘Arry,” he said huskily, picking a cigarette out of the box rather aggressively. “Don’t fret.”

He could strangle the conversation all he liked, he would _not_ minimize the situation. But this was not the time and place; Harry shut his mouth tightly and didn’t relax his muscles until they got in the car; not even to pick where to go did he speak — he’d just wind up saying it all out of order and Louis wouldn’t listen, nor understand properly.

***

They were in the car for far too long to just be going to a nearby park, Harry was sure. But he also didn’t want Louis to know he was so vulnerable with him; he didn’t want to admit it to _himself._

It was past tea time when Louis parked the car in front of a buttermilk, summery house, grey ocean water digging harshly at the rocky sand in front of it. The yellow paint was off-putting, a dot of dead happiness amidst a thousand shades of grey. A great satire.

“Why are here?” Harry grunted.

“The question you want to ask is why Britons own summerhouses,” was all Louis offered before leaving the car, stopping at the trunk to take their things.

Harry did, stupidly, ponder over the fact before heading in, a dull sun lowering in the sky behind thick clouds.

He walked in to find sunshine within the house, spread out on a sofa matching the yellow of the house, having a smoke and watching the seagulls. Eyes swimming in lake skies.

Louis turned to watch Harry walk in, and he was reminded of something he had told Harry — _I love watching you move, just being who you are. Making love to you with my eyes_. Harry accepted it when he opened space for Harry between his legs, where he could close his eyes and listen to Louis’ heartbeat and drown in it if he’d like.

They just held each other, Harry listening to the music of Louis’ life, Louis holding him tight tight tight, tender fingers drawing shapes between the strands of Harry’s hairs; leaving kisses on each other’s skin whenever a star shot across the sky, somewhere around the globe.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, darling,” Louis whispered. Not because they weren’t alone, but because the entire world was out to get them, so they held on tight to the things they loved — each other. Softness.

“Shh, you didn’t. You didn’t. I was scared. So scared,” he was cut short by an ugly sob closing up his throat, for which Louis kissed him all over his face to help.

“It’s okay,” he kissed below where Harry’s jawbones met, “to call me an arse,” he trailed kisses lower and lower on his neck, always honey-sweet, honey-thick.

“I don’t like lying.”

Louis just fleeted his sight from Harry’s left to right eye. He sighed as if defeated, and gave in, kissed Harry’s plump lips hungrily — not sexually, just needy. “Whatever you’d like.”

***

They took over an hour to prepare simple sandwiches, too distracted with the music and the dancing and the sweet kisses, the honey words, and watched the sun hide below the water with crumbs on their laps and smiles on their faces — love on their lips — and fell asleep under the stars the city couldn’t see, watching Venus wordlessly, afraid they’d jinx it.

“Why do Britons own summerhouses, Lou?” Harry whispered into the humid air.

Louis trailed his finger on Harry’s jawline slowly, a little sadly.

“So they can kiss their lovers.”

*******

When Harry woke up at sunrise, he considered doing it again. The marble floor wouldn't make a noise, and there was a bus stop just a couple blocks down… But then Louis let out a hot puff of breath on his shoulder blade, and his eyes prickled with tears — at the thought of missing this.

The pang of premature longing resurged when they were at a bookshop, and Louis traced his fingers as Harry felt the curves of book spines.

And when Louis took Harry’s hand in his whilst driving, the only proof he’d even noticed in his smitten smirk.

And when Harry kissed Louis’ forehead gently that night, not daring to think about the sweat on the bed and the fact that his hair was tousled from Harry running his fingers through it to refrain from touching where he most wanted to… Harry ignored the thickness of his throat that he could not swallow, however much he tried, and packed his things.

If it weren’t for the luxury of the house, he’d certainly have had awoken Louis, if the floorboards creaked under his weight. And if it weren’t for its size, he’d certainly have heard the echo of Harry’s sniffles.

***

Louis lingered between consciousness and sleep, troubled by the lull of the ocean water and warm duvet fighting against the rousing brightness and his own rambling thoughts.

What knocked him off the edge of the knife was reaching out for another body and finding cold sheets. His heartbeat accelerated, but he shut his eyes tightly, unwilling to let the light in just yet, but the more he tapped around him the colder the bed got, an empty sea of linen.

Louis jumped awake, not sure why and where he was for a few seconds. When he got a grip of his senses, further investigation rounded up to some results:

There was no one else in bed with him.

There was no smell of breakfast.

There was no Harry at all.

There was, in fact, a note. In Harry’s uncapitalised, curly handwriting:

_dearest,_

_our time together has been wonderful. i had fun like i haven’t in a long, long time, and i got to watch you become a more carefree person; someone whom i have, against all will, fallen for._

_you have a chance to lead a normal life, my darling. it is perhaps selfish that i do not apologise for meeting you, for falling for you, for our time together; and that i hope you don’t either. i only apologise for the burden it’ll cause you, has caused you. people like us aren’t meant to fall in love, we aren’t even meant to exist… _

_please believe that i would do anything so see you happy and so i do the only thing i can: i release you. i release you from my claim, that should’ve never been there in the first place; i release you from your sins; i release you from your remorse; i release you from me, in every way i have affected you._

_all the love. h_

Louis wanted to cry. His insides did twist and ache for it — but he couldn’t. They just didn’t come. He just looked outside, at the bright grey clouds and the thin raindrops that were so hard to see, one could mistake them for dust on the window panes… He wanted to run after him and convince him of everything they shouldn’t abandon, but he just sat in a rocking chair and watched the cigarette smoke get lost in the clouds.

Louis didn’t eat the entire day, didn’t feel any hunger. Didn’t feel any motivation at all, he smoked just to have something to do.


	2. home

**xi.**

Highlands was posh and grey as always. It had long ago lost its magic to Louis, what with having grown up there, but now that he’d truly _lived_ — it was all colourless. The houses were all the same shade of daisy white, the cars are all the same fancy brands, the families all followed the same structure — it was all the same blandness. (The colours all laid in green eyes, chocolate curls.)

When Louis first arrived at the cul-de-sac, there had been one person mowing his lawn; by the time he got to the curve in front of his house, all the curtains had been drawn to snoop.

Louis was tired of all this bullshit.

His mailbox overflowed at the edges, and letters flew off when he opened it, and all fell on the dewy grass.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Louis whispered and crouched to try to save them from smudges.

The neighbours watched on. _Yes, have a look at my arse,_ Louis thought, gripping the letters in his hand tightly to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

The rain was light, but by the time he unlocked the door, the water had soaked through his clothes, but the drops were too warm to feel cathartic.

***

Louis fell in love with a man, and the world didn’t stop. It continued in its rush, dragging Louis along with the change of seasons, the falling of leaves and the birth of sunshine. The whirlwind in Louis’ mind was subdued greatly by the glass tank that protected him, that made every noise but his own muffled and distant.

The days passed — he knew because he watched the sun set and rise every day — but nothing changed. Agnes never sent a follow-up letter to discuss the girls’ custody. Harry never wrote back.

Eventually, there was a knock on the door, which Louis ignored, per usual. But the person was insistent and stayed there, knocking every few minutes for an hour, until Louis finally got up, muscles heavy with disuse.

“Hello?” he croaked as he cracked the door open.

“Louis!” It was his mum. “Why did you make me stay out here for an _hour_? What if I had the kids with me?” She scowled and pushed the door open and let herself in. “Jesus, did I raise an ogre?” she hissed to herself. A red flannel hid the contents of the woven basket she carried.

She continued chattering (Louis mostly gave short, one-word answers or a tight smile) as she took off her raincoat, only lightly peppered with raindrops, and made her way to the kitchen. She put the basket down on the counter and uncovered it, settling greens and vegetables in Louis’ fridge.

She sighed when she opened the refrigerator. “Louis, this is empty. What have you been eating?”

Louis wasn’t sure if she wanted a response or not, so he just hummed nonchalantly from where he sat on the balcony stools.

The ruffling of containers halted.

“Louis.”

“What?”

“Have you been eating at all?” Louis wasn’t actively avoiding her eyes; it was just hard, strangely, to look away from the basket of fruits beside her, as still as it was. Not to seem mad, Louis tried to focus on her face and ended up stuck on the blurry frames of her glasses. He couldn’t focus his vision.

“Um, I…” he squinted, trying to find her eyes. “I dunno. Not much.”

“Honey…”

“I just forget. I dunno.” The edges of her face finally came back into a quivering focus as he returned from the swim of thoughts.

His mum sat beside him and locked the heels of her short pumps behind the stool’s stretchers. “Lou…”

The seriousness of her tone startled Louis’ vision back into clarity. Her face wasn’t as smooth as it had once been: wrinkles lingered where they would have faded a few years prior. He jumped from looking at one eye to her other, the intensity in them difficult to bear.

She clearly thought hard about how she’d phrase it, took her time to choose the words. “Darling, you shouldn’t be here all alone. Take a vacation. Stay with me and the girls for a while, help me take care of them.” (She knew if she said _let me take care of you_ he’d reject it immediately.)

Louis thought of his eerily quiet house and of how it threatened to close his throat. He thought of how he could hear wonky piano notes, followed by Harry’s low laugh and the twin’s giggles, or how he could see his daughters’ ghosts, every age they had abandoned already, in every corner, every stain. He could nearly see the path of blood trailing on the floor wherever he walked, dripping thick and hot and bright red right from where it ached the most.

“Yeah. Alright.” His legs were unsteady and his eyes weren’t seeing, but Louis found his room and a holdall for a few cotton shirts and shorts.

When he came back down, he found his mother frozen in front of his and Agnes’ wedding picture, picking at her nails. He didn’t look at it, didn’t have to; he could see it in his mind perfectly anyway, every detail — their itchy clothes, the strangers in the background, his rigid arm around her waist, his dead eyes.

“C’mon, mum,” he crooned, caressing her shoulder, the lace of her sleeve.

She nodded, schooling her expression to a serene gentleness, and headed for the goods she’d put back in the basket.

**xii.**

Louis’ room at his mum’s had baby blue walls and cherry wood furniture and a pinboard of cutouts and pictures and tickets Louis had collected in his youth to mimic his childhood bedroom, but it lacked all the memories: Louis had never written smitten letters he never dared send nor cried himself to sleep, wishing his wrong away. This room hadn’t seen him sin, nor had it seen him happy. This room had only seen his ghost.

He flicked the carpet’s decorative strings and sighed into the cast shadows on the floor. He reached for the boxes he kept under the bed — a particular, light blue and covered in dust in mind.

He set it in front of him on the rug and stared at its scrawny bones. He squinted at it. It mocked him by remaining unbothered. He huffed. The box sighed at his despair.

Finally, he reached for the lid, cursing himself for having lost to an object and for his trembling hands. Inside, the letters sat warm and peacefully, slowly waking up from their hibernation to a disastrous summer. Louis picked up the first one, paper wrinkling dryly with his touch.

 _To Oliver,_ the letter sang. Louis’ breathing picked up, remembering keywords and the stupid smile on his face as he wrote it and the tears in his eyelashes when he stashed it. _1939._ (Louis was only twelve.) _“I think about holding your hand.”_

 _To Eddie,_ the next one stated happily. _1941._ This one knocked Louis’ chest abruptly and poured hot tears in his eyes. _“When you laugh, butterflies fly in my stomach.”_

Louis skipped to the bottom of the pile, where the youngest pup was hidden.

 _To Stan,_ this one announced proudly. _1943._ Louis’ fingers shook so much, he nearly dropped the words in the light blue abysm. _“Do you ever think about kissing boys?”_ The words asked the naïve question hopefully, as if they’d be answered. As if they’d be listened to. So stupidly bold, one would have thought, but, of course, they weren’t. They were all hidden in a box to deteriorate. Like every other time Louis pulled out the box, he stuffed the papers back in their order and pushed it back under the bed. But this wasn’t his childhood bedroom, it didn’t knock old toys over cathartically — it just slid dully over the floorboards until it became too weak to continue, having gone all these years unfed and unloved.

The photos pinned to his board eyed him in disgust, smiles twisting into subtle snares and memories curling with the sting of fire as he got up. They followed him with their eyes as he ran out of his room, heart thrumming and sweating cold.

He found her on the bay window, reading a book to moonlight.

“Mum.” She looked up, and he saw the strain in her eye muscles. “Mum, you should really turn on the light after dusk,” he smiled easily despite the burn of tear trails on his cheeks.

She must have heard the hidden sniffle in his voice, but couldn’t help but fall into their usual banter. “I shall _not_ surrender to seeing glasses and lamplight, however many times will I have to tell you that?”

“As many as the houses that burn down from candlelight, old woman,” he jested easily.

She hummed as she marked the page. “I find that highly unlikely,” she set the book down, “seeing that I’m not using a candle this time, sir,” she winked and patted the cushion beside hers. “You’ll have the find a new argument sometime.”

“S’ppose so.” Louis sighed fondly. “It’s even worse for your sight with only the moon, you know?” he added after a beat, more serious.

“Well, since the moon is merely reflecting the light of the sun, I think, logically, that moonlight is just night’s sunlight.” She reached for cigarettes.

“Do you now?” Louis accepted.

“As strongly as that the Earth is flat, dearest. Don’t you know?”

Louis chuckled at her joke. “Mum, I…” For the first time since boyhood guilt over broken vases, Louis struggled to look his mother in the eye. Instead, he ran his fingers through the length of the cigarette and forced his throat not to close with tears. She waited patiently, nursing her cigarette and watching the darkening sky.

“Be careful what you’re about to say, dear. There are shooting stars behind you,” she winked.

The words pushed through, unstoppable and unrelenting no that they had formed. “Mum, I’m telling you because I _want_ you to know, but if you wish I hadn’t… we could pretend. But I have to tell you. Even if… even if you don’t want me anymore.”

She inhaled sharply and exhaled cigarette smoke.

“I love Harry.” Louis wished he could put in his voice the butterflies and the hysteria Harry causes him, but it came out dull and frightened.

“Oh.”

“Maybe it’s sickly. I don’t know. But I—”

“Shh.” She pointed behind his head, up at the sky. A ray of light disappeared half a second after he turned his head, leaving only a trail of glowing stardust behind. “I wish,” she whispered as she put her arms around Louis, “I wish, upon this shooting star, that the lovely lad my son loves,” Louis’ breath hitched, “loves him just as dearly.”

His head eventually fell to her chest and her hand to his hair, slowly scratching his roots. Her calm heartbeat and the hum of cicadas in the background.

“That shooting star happened maybe millions of years ago, you know,” he murmured after a while.

His mother sighed, and her hand on his hair faltered. “Stop being so cynical.”

“It’s too dangerous.” He hated how his voice wobbled.

She went back to caressing his scalp slowly. They were silent for a long time before she spoke again: “But you know what’s more dangerous?”

Louis wished he’d just cry already. The stupid tears didn’t have to keep teasing until the dam tore; they could just arrive and depart without causing a scene. He shook his head at the question.

“You being unhappy.”

Louis chuckled humourlessly.

“I’m serious, love. Have you told him?”

Louis played with the hem of his sweater, pushed it over his hands every so often to fight the sneaky cold breezes. “No.”

She sighed and punched her cigarette into the ashtray on the bench. “Louis.” He finally found her eyes and didn’t look away this time. “I’m sorry to call you out, darling, but if you really love him, the danger wouldn’t matter. If it’s real, it aches to be _apart_. You’d do anything to get him back. So get your shit together, boy.”

The tears finally arrived — with a grand entrance, of course; his whole face blotchy and scrunched, the hot tears leaving salty clear trails on his skin. “Mum, he…” he was interrupted by a sob. “I can’t.”

She still caressed his hair but eyed him cooly.

“He left, mum. I can’t just…”

“Well, no. But you can tell him.”

“Mum…”

“He deserves to know, darling.”

He hadn’t done it in years, but he had the sudden urge to now: he felt the edge of her sweater until he found it, the seam where multiple knots met and the fabric was thicker. As a child, he’d cling to her by this particular spot on her clothes when he was unwell, and even made her change when he couldn't find it in the clothes she wore. Just like years ago, he gently fingered the fabric. It was simple and childish, but it made him feel better.

“I didn’t know you still did that.”

Louis just shrugged, not up to explain. He’d just been preparing for the possibility of having to let go of his mother because of who he was; he needed the familiar comfort.

He hadn’t been planning on writing a letter to Harry. It’d be, like it had for the others, a form of letting go — first admittance, then parting. But when he opened his bedroom door, his fountain pen rolled onto a laid out stationery set, moonlight dramatically cast on the paper and making it the only thing glowing in the dark room.

Louis had no chance: he saw the paper and pen ready, and the words began forming and stringing together, and if he didn’t write them _right then,_ he would lose them. It wasn’t a choice.

_H,_

_Mum says that if it’s real love, one would do anything — everything — to save it. I know you think you’re doing just that, but I would do it for you. For a million years, through any risk — I would do it for you. With you. I would take every risk and every chance I get because I love you. I fell for you to starlight and laughter, but I still love you through distance and difficulty. It’s real for me._

_I need you to know that if you’d like, I would fight and give up everything for you, to be with you._ That _would make me happy._

 _Wherever you are, I implore you to be happy, and I hope that you are. I may be selfish for asking this, but I must_ — _please don’t forget me._

_Love,_

_Lou._

He planned to send this letter, or at least consider the idea, so it was safer to sign with a nickname. Though, looking through it one more time, he couldn't find incriminating text anyway; nothing that would make the nature of their relationship obvious in case someone were to stumble upon it.

Louis shook his head. _Stop with the paranoia,_ he scolded himself. He simply stared at the letter for a bit, hoping to pour his desperation into the paper, but eventually sealed it, signing _To Harry; 1955._

He wanted to keep it by his heart through the night, but that would be risky — it would crumble, and maybe he’d forget it, lost in the duvet, and it’d be found by uninvited hands — so he swallowed his fear and retrieved the dreaded box from under the bed again. And he put Harry with the others.

That left a sour aftertaste in his mouth, but he couldn't risk being found.

**xiii.**

It was pouring, fittingly enough; the sheets of rain so thick that people kept knocking into each other, not able to see where they were going, sometimes because their wet fringe covered their eyes. It was a popular haircut, but perhaps not tailored to rainy weather.

Agnes paid no mind. The rains were so common; people really ought to get used to them. Alas, her fur coat didn’t allow any rain in, so she was warm; the icy droplets hitting her cheeks would make a gorgeous natural blush.

She swung the glass door open, startling the receptionist with how sudden the bell rang (and with her blinding smile in a sea gloomy faces.)

“Um, how can I help you today, Miss?” the receptionist regained her composure quickly.

“I’m here to see Mr James, please,” Agnes said without looking at the woman; instead, she rummaged through her bag to find her ID, which she presented immediately.

The receptionist glanced at it, then at her papers, and droned, “Third floor, office 302. Have a good afternoon, Miss.”

Agnes walked into the familiar office with glee, her feet dancing through the carpet. “Melvin?” she called as she hung her coat by the door. Mr James’ office wasn’t very big — a desk and chairs in the main area, and a smaller, closed-off section for documents and bulletin boards; somewhere for him to go insane without clients interrupting.

She rolled her eyes when she heard pacing from behind the closed door, then knocked thrice, determinedly. “Melvin.”

The door opened just a crack, revealing a single wide-open eyeball. Then the man behind it sighed with relief. “Agnes, my goodness.”

“Would you get out of there? What is it this time?”

Melvin meticulously locked the door behind him — how he always did, or else he’d forget he locked it and would obsessively check it every five minutes.

“Mel.”

“Huh?” he startled towards her.

She just raised her eyebrows, bored.

“Oh. It’s a murder case. Pretty big deal. Very intriguing. How are you?”

“Well, despite the weather and the fact that you haven’t offered any biscuits yet, I’m wonderful, thanks.”

At that, Melvin rushed to open a tin that had been on his desk, an ornate sunset turned towards his side of it. “You know you can always just grab them, Agnes, please.”

“Yeah,” she rolled her eyes fondly, saying the words with a pout as to keep the crumbs in. “But then it’s way less fun.”

He shook his head but had a small smile contradicting it. “So, how are things?”

“Much better than expected, actually. He disappeared with the pianist the other week, but I’m told he was dragged to his mother’s this weekend. So perhaps he won’t want them at all.”

“That hardly makes any sense… He’s — was, I guess — so crazy about them…” Melvin was mostly talking to himself as he wrote all this down and ran his fingers through his hair and forehead as though he were taking an exam.

“Yeah, but it’s fine. I don’t want him interfering anyway, so everything’s fine.” It irritated her that Melvin kept writing that it was strange behaviour. “ _Anyway,”_ she emphasized icily, “I sent him the papers, but since he’s not at home, it’ll be just a bit.”

Melvin continued to furrow his eyebrows at the paper as though it had personally offended him. “Have ya?” he did not look up to say.

“Mel,” she said as she fumbled with a cigarette, “I love you to bits, but I came in here today in the best of moods, and you are killing it fast.” She pointed the fiery end at him.

“Yes, yes, sorry,” he pushed the papers away. Throughout the rest of their conversation, Agnes repeatedly saw him glance at it, and he wouldn’t stop tapping his foot. But overall she did manage a proper conversation.

“Okay, love, now you can stress about it,” she said half an hour later as she reached for her coat. “Just don’t forget to eat.” She kissed his cheek and he hugged her sideways, already submerged in some handwritten notes.

She rolled her eyes and adjusted her purse over the thick furry sleeve of her coat. She paused by his office door, hands barely brushing the frame, to look back at him — his back hunched, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. His complete submersion in the text. The clock behind him, ticking way past six in the afternoon.

Her best friend’s husband.

Agnes sighed and closed the door behind her.

Edith and Agnes had been childhood neighbours, attached to the hip since the very start. She deserved better than a workaholic.

What really hurt, though, is that Agnes couldn’t hate Melvin James — as distracted as he was, always lost in his thoughts — he was kind and caring. He never forgot an anniversary or birthday. He always bought well-thought-out gifts.

The rain continued to pour and Agnes’ heart clenched.

**xiv.**

“Louis!” was the first thing he heard that morning, in a startled squeak. “I’m, uh, I didn’t know you were here. Jesus,” Alma pressed a hand to her chest but nevertheless smiled brightly. “What are you doing here, darling?”

Louis was never too good at conversations in the morning, but he sucked it up for a childhood friend. “Just an impromptu visit, you know how it is.” His voice came out rough from night’s disuse.

“Hmm,” she hummed. “Okay, come out for breakfast soon, you.”

“You know I will.”

“Yeah, alright,” she said, voice tinted with laughter.

Louis turned in bed to stare at the ceiling. He wondered where Harry was, what he was doing. Who he was with.

“Ugh, it doesn’t _matter,”_ Louis groaned into his pillow. Of course it mattered. He had told his _mum._

Being in love was a sweet lightness in his chest, fluttering and refreshing, just from knowing that there was a person out there, somewhere in the world, who carried his heart for him. But at the edge, where it almost went unnoticed, the dark spot where fear settled to rot weighed him down and anchored Louis to the inevitable truth — that he did not carry his person’s heart.

Louis wasn’t hungry, but eating did distract him — and chewing kept him from having to talk. Louis loved his big family, but his mind was tumulted enough as it was. It was nice, though — not constantly feeling his stomach sting and turn.

Louis was in his room when Niall knocked twice before peeking in.

“Hey, Lou,” he sang. “You up for some beers? Just down at the pub?”

Louis looked at the book he was attempting to read, but kept getting pulled from by his inconvenient thoughts, and shrugged. “Alright.” Though, “just down” in a rural area was more like “a few thousand acres,” but it was fine.

During the drive, Louis was silent, just listening to Niall fill him in on his and Alma’s relationship — they’d be trying for a baby soon.

“We haven’t hung out in ages, mate,” Niall bubbled. Louis wondered how he’d react if Louis told him — if he’d quit his job, or unfriend Louis, or perhaps even tell the police. Or maybe — just maybe, Louis didn’t dare dwell too much on it — he’d be as accepting as his mother had been.

Louis kept his mouth shut.

The pub looked the same as it had since Louis first came here in his youth. The greasy floors, the darkened windows, the shattered lights. The mould was more persistent, though. Even their orders hadn’t changed.

The only difference was that Louis noticed the little things he’d never picked up on before — the man who was sitting alone at the other end of the balcony, who exchanged a few grunts with another man who came up to him, and then the two left. Together.

It had always been all around him, _in_ him. He’d just never allowed himself to notice.

He wasn’t fine before, but there was a sudden crash in the waves and Louis wanted, wanted, wanted — _needed_ to hug Harry and just stay in his arms. Maybe tell him a few things he ought to know, the words dancing on the tip of Louis’ tongue, itching to be freed. It was because of this desperate longing, so utterly _pathetic,_ that he drank to forget and hoped that a few laughs would escape him.

Sure enough, he was giggling soon — he couldn't help it, not really; the bubbly wheezes just took over his body until they evaporated into sobbing, and he didn’t know when it had switched or why or who had noticed. It was just so sudden, how he went from crying from laughter to snotty sobs, to Niall pulling him by the arm out into the sharp wind of night.

“Lou, why didn’t you tell me you missed her?” Niall kept saying, but Louis couldn’t hear him properly with all the wind and the tears and all these words flying all around his head.

“Who?” he shouted back, stepping falsely into an air step.

“What?” Niall yelled back.

“Who are you talking about?” Niall winced when Louis fell into him accidentally — how did that even happen, he’d been miles away — but noticed too late to adjust the volume of his voice.

“Agnes, Lou, who else?”

“Agnes?”

Niall huffed impatiently, linking their arms. “Jesus, lad. Your ex-wife.”

“Why would I miss her?”

Niall breathed in sharply. “God, Lou, I knew you didn’t exactly marry her out of love, but she doesn’t deserve this, you know? And you — God, Lou, own up to your crap.”

Louis hadn’t thought about Agnes in a while. In fact, right now he was in a sweet, swimming spot, just swaying with the wind and Niall as he guided them. He was rather sleepy, his eyes droopy and just so heavy to keep open…

“No, no, no, no. At least wait till we find the car, Lou, for God’s sake,” Niall pleaded and pinched his side.

“Ow! Wha’ d’you do that for?”

“To keep yeh awake, sleepyhead. Goodness. Just — just a wee bit more, there you go.”

The next time Louis was aware of his surroundings, the car was moving. “Lou, you’re too heavy for me to carry, please don’t sleep,” Niall grunted as he poked Louis repeatedly. “Please, please, please.”

“What?”

Niall startled — his arms twitched and his head snapped in Louis’ direction — and he let out a relieved sigh. “God.”

“Why are you poking me.” It was supposed to be a question, Louis was pretty sure, but it didn’t sound like it.

“Um, because you were falling asleep.” Niall was half-distracted with driving.

“Right.”

“Anyway, uh, why — if you don’t miss Agnes, why were you crying, Lou?”

“Oh,” Louis knocked the side of his forehead against the window. “No one, Ni.”

Silence crept in between them, horribly thick.

“It’s okay, you know?” Niall said.

Louis almost laughed. “Trust me, Ni, it’s _not_ like that.”

“Then tell me? Please, Lou, you’re obviously upset.”

Louis was too tired and drunk; the words just stumbled out angrily, without his permission or sensor. “I’m fucking queer, Niall, that’s what. And I miss another man.” He regretted saying it as soon as his eyes stung, when he said _“miss.”_ Missing, missing, missing. _I miss him. Does he miss me?_

Before, the silence had been honey-thick. Now, it was dense and blurry like fog.

They were silent for enough time for Louis to forget Niall was there at all. It was easier than losing his best friend. Then Niall startled him by breathing, “Who?” into the humid air. He leaned in so much in his seat that droplets fell down the windscreen of the car after he spoke.

“Who?” Louis repeated.

“Your, uh…” Niall forced a cough into his fist.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Louis watched as they drove past cows before responding. The rain and the outline of animals were underestimated in their cathartics, truly. “Harry.” Niall audibly gasped beside him.

“He’s a cool lad. I’m happy for you.”

Louis did not answer. Not because he didn’t wish to, not because he had no words, but because there were so many — some were incoherent questions, questions to just confirm what he’d just heard, others were sentiments he could not express verbally, like letting his jaw hang open. He wanted to express his gratitude and happiness, he did, but there were too many for him to pick, and they all jumbled together in one incoherent mess. So Louis stayed silent, staring at Niall’s profile until he began to smile, so wide and bright that his muscles hurt, but he couldn’t care in the least.

Until, of course, he got in bed that night not with the man he loved but with a horrendous being with sunk eyesockets and little fat to cover the marks of his ribs, dying of thirst and hunger of something Louis could not provide. Longing, bitter and bony, wasn’t a good bed partner.

Its dead smell smeared onto Louis so that everyone would easily pick up on it from miles away come morning.

**xv.**

Agnes knocked on the door twice in quick succession, then once after a short pause. Then someone snapped open the rectangular peephole at the top centre of the wood, eyeing her suspiciously, even though she’d seen these same eyebrows hundreds of times before. Agnes rolled her eyes and blew smoke at them.

“Agnes!” the person squealed from inside.

“Margaret, will you stop acting like you’re the princess? She’s engaged. Move on,” Agnes drones as the door swings open.

“Agnes, she’s too gorgeous to simply move on. Besides,” she picked Agnes coat to hang in the closet. “That man is far too old for her. I’m sure she’ll see the light soon.”

“Well, perhaps, but she’d still never mingle with a peasant _woman,_ Meg, please. Have some self-respect.” She smiled as she said it.

Margaret sighed dreamily with a hand to her chest. “Self-respect _is_ loving her, Agnes. She’s a princess, isn’t that what every girl _should_ hope for?”

Agnes giggled so hard she had to cover her mouth. “I think that’s only half-correct, darling.”

Margaret sighed as she locked the door tightly. “Sadly. But anyway, she’s waiting for you in the library.” She winked and headed into the kitchen. It was an odd day, quite bright but no sun out. The sky was grey but no lights were needed. It was disconcerting; in this house, things were, more often than not, gloomy — a contrast from her house at Highlands. Yet somehow it was always much less dreary here.

Edith had crawled into herself in an armchair, frowning at a book she brought closer and closer to her face with each passing second, so indulged that she didn’t notice Agnes come in. She was beautiful — her thin blonde hair was touched by light in a feather-soft way, as though she were the moon, attracting every little sunlight nearby and gifting it to darkness. A lot of men pointed their noses when they saw her walking past, because their eyes couldn’t get past her round waist, but she had long since stopped caring. It raged Agnes a lot more than Edith herself — it was the main reason why she hated the way things were. Because she couldn't punch those men right in the face.

“What are you reading?” Agnes asked.

Edith nearly dropped the book in surprise. “Oh!” She had the softest voice. “Just Agatha Christie.” She blushed and tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Oh, a new one?”

“Well, it’s one I haven’t read? One of her first.”

“Good,” Agnes muttered around the cigarette she tried to light. “Listen, I went to Melvin’s office today.” Edith hummed. “And he says… He says I need proof. And all the proof I have would compromise me as well, and we cannot have that. The girls would be orphaned.” She trembled as she talked, muscles tense and breaths sharp. “They cannot.”

“But what if he wants the divorce too?”

“Ugh, I’d have to talk to him again, Edith,” Agnes whined.

She didn’t look up to respond. “Agatha, you know he’s the loveliest of men to grace this planet.”

“That is exactly the problem. I _want_ to hate him, but he just won’t let me! It’s infuriating.”

Edith laughed — a bubbly, sunshine laugh — that made Agnes’ lips curl upwards. “You’re so dramatic.”

Things were so easy with her and Edith — they flowed, like her butter hair. It was a terrible thing to even think, but if their husbands weren’t so outrageously _nice_ — if they were like so many other husbands, careless and horrible — maybe then they wouldn’t feel guilty for kissing. For loving each other.

Agnes looked away and fiddled with the trinkets laying on the table beside her. She plastered a smile on. “It’s my brand.”

**xvi.**

The fairy lights coated the ground like sprinkles on fairy cakes’ frosting, and the fluffy snow crunched pleasantly under Louis’ steps. The cold wasn’t particularly biting — just an annoying light breeze that went through his coat’s sleeves occasionally.

Louis had been surprised when Agnes called, a few weeks prior. They hadn’t talked in months. She asked to meet up for tea — to discuss their divorce. Finally.

It wasn’t a difficult conversation, like Louis thought it would be; they laid out on the table the fact and signed things, and that was that.

Afterward, whilst walking around to pass time, Louis even bought Agnes an early Christmas gift. There was no reason not to; she liked the scarf and Louis could afford it, and he had never disliked her anyway. In fact, Louis was rather happy the entire day, even though he officialised his divorce and the weather became increasingly frigid as the evening lengthened.

It was only when he walked into a bakery, thoughts lost in cotton clouds, that he deflated.

Harry was there.

Just standing at a corner, speaking to a man as gorgeous as the moon itself, and if Louis hadn’t seen what he’d seen and done what he’d done, he’d never have care, not even noticed, but it was plain as day to him that that man and Harry were together. That Harry had lied, about his fear of being with another man.

Clearly, he wasn’t one bit embarrassed to be with _that_ man. (Logically, Louis knew there was literally no way to; that man had been sculpted by God Himself, there was no other explanation.)

Yet there was a second force — the infamous green-eyed beast — that rooted Louis to the floor. That cut off all the Christmas music, and the laughter, and the people. Everything just stopped. It was only Louis, the blood rushing through his ears — and Harry. With that other man.

The main reason Louis froze was because he hadn’t seen Harry since the summer. The second, that he had absolutely no right to go up to him.

As things are, fate had already decided how this would play; she turned her playing pieces just right. Slightly to the left. An inch or two down. Just enough so that Louis saw the exact moment Harry saw him.

His smile wavered mid-laugh. He swallowed.

The corners of his lips even drooped, but it was probably because he pitied Louis. The lonely wreck that Louis had become.

His legs walked for him, took him to the display, and the fairy cakes all looked the same in the blur of his heartbeat; he just pointed to one and threw his money on the counter, still too shaken and too deaf to react to anything.

He jumped — and probably squeaked, though he didn’t hear — when someone touched his shoulder.

“Lou.” It was the improbable mixture of bubbly and melancholy; the corners of Harry’s lips were clearly craving to curve, but his tone was raw. As though he’d fought off tears.

“Harry, long time no see.” Harry flinched. If it hadn’t been him who’d said it, Louis would probably have flinched too.

“Um, how are you?” His hands were now frozen by his sides.

“Good. Just doing some Christmas shopping.”

Harry’s lips twitched. Louis wondered what he wanted to say — he was about to ask when the baker interrupted with a “Sir?”

“Oh, I think that’s me.”

Harry stayed in the middle of the shop, and he watched Louis leave. Louis felt his gaze, an itch on the back of his neck.

***

The letter.

The letter had been burning in his pocket ever since he came back from his mum’s. At first, it was _just in case_ he ran into Harry; a, “let me just hand you a declaration of love?” Soon, it became security, the last piece of Harry he could carry around. A comforting parallel universe in which they were certain of each other, and it was only external problems keeping them apart. Where they still had a chance.

Now, it burned in rage. In neglect. It had waited far too long already; from where it crumpled in ire, burst in flames with jealousy, and ripped itself to shreds from desperation, the letter fought for its freedom.

So Louis yanked it from his breast pocket and tried not to crush it in his fist, and walked back into the shop, where Harry still stood, frozen.

Louis shoved the letter into his chest, and for a moment, he could feel Harry’s heart racing. _What I wouldn’t do to kiss you senseless, just one last time._

All those people, though.

And the man awaiting Harry.

So Louis turned and left.

**xvii.**

The moment Louis walked into the bakery, Harry stopped hearing Zayn, even as close as he was.

He hadn’t seen him in months; he had started to think his imagination was distorting how beautiful Louis looked in his dreams — but he was dreadfully wrong.

Louis was so much more in person.

Now, Harry was still frozen in the middle of the bakery, clutching the paper Louis shoved into his chest. He hadn’t moved much — besides his eyelids. He had blinked quite a bit.

Zayn is the one who woke him up, with a light tap on his shoulder.

“H, who was that? What is that?” Harry didn’t answer. “You alright?”

“That was Louis.” He hadn’t allowed the words out. He just left.

“Oh.”

Harry was finally able to breathe all the way in — the cold air didn’t give any choice — and looked at what Louis had given him.

A letter. Addressed _To Harry_ with no sender, not that it was necessary. Harry could still feel his fingertips brushing his chest.

Harry swallowed. “Can we leave?”

“‘Course.”

Zayn tried to talk to Harry during the ride home, but Harry was too distracted — every time, he’d ask, “Sorry, what?” — too distant swimming in his thoughts.

Eventually, Zayn gave up trying to hold a conversation and just sent Harry worried gazes every now and then.

Harry inspected every aspect of the envelope, keeping it sealed. How it wasn’t that wrinkly, most of it seemed to be from today. The paper was yellowed, though, so Louis had probably had this for a couple of months.

Was he carrying this the entire time?

“You know, they say the best way to read letters begins with opening them.”

Harry smiled and playfully punched Zayn’s arm. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious, though!”

“‘M not gonna open it in a _car!_ Where’s your romance gone?”

Their smiles and their laughter stopped abruptly.

“Romance?” Zayn muttered. Harry hadn’t told Zayn — nor Liam, for that matter — that in between the sunshine and the blooming flowers, he had fallen for Louis. He had said, upon arrival, that his sadness was just due to coming back to his mundane life after spending weeks in luxury.

Harry gulped. “I…”

“Let’s just get you home, Haz.”

***

The letter.

Its words were certainly etched with sugar, on the prettiest of sweets, but now the yellowing of the paper reminded Harry that it had long gone bad.

It wasn’t even dramatic. It wasn’t an ice cream that fell in a colourful splatter, it wasn’t fresh cake put out to cool and winded up in thunderous rain or eaten by a wild animal.

It was just an aged sweet. Too brittle and bitter to be enjoyed anymore.

It was just a disappointment to whoever touched it, because its splendid exterior, so jovial and free and drenched in love, but it was just more sugar down the drain.

_I fell for you to starlight and laughter, but I still love you through distance and difficulty._

Why had Harry even left?

_For a million years, through any risk — I would do it for you. With you._

_I would take every risk and every chance because I love you._

“Ugh.”

Harry ran to the door and picked up the first coat he got his hands on and ran.

He couldn’t _not_ run, as much as he tried; he was just so excited.

Fearful, too — Louis had been so angry to see him in the bakery. Maybe he was over Harry. But then why would he have given Harry the letter? God, this is why Harry disliked thinking. It made everything just that much more complicated.

Instead, he skipped steps every so often (because he couldn’t stop himself) so he wouldn’t run (because that would make passerby suspicious.)

Liam’s bar was walking distance from his flat, but since he was half-jogging, he got there much quicker than he usually would.

His bubbly mood immediately fizzled.

By the bar, there were several people — that was normal, it was a busy street — but this was different. There was something about this crowd... the shouting wasn’t drunken enough.

He finally saw it: a man pushed into a paddy wagon, several others cuffed behind him.

The raids of Liam’s bar were very rare, but they happened from time to time.

Last time, Harry had been at the bar, killing time with Zayn as Liam poured them shots. As soon as the police barged in, the bar became no man’s land. Certainly _s_ _omeone_ robbed in the midst of chaos, but most ran for their lives, leaving a trail of scattered chairs and mugs. The floor smelled of alcohol for weeks after.

When he realised what was happening — there was an agitation outside, then the doors burst open and lots of people yelled — Liam and other bartenders jumped over the balcony and pretended they were costumers; Zayn tugged Harry and Liam to his art studio.

This time, he didn’t know whether Zayn and Liam had been quick enough, or if there had been officers disguised as costumers to catch the bartenders before they could assimilate with patrons. His frantic scan of those arrested amounted to zero known faces, but they were people nonetheless — people whose lives were about to become really difficult.

He should’ve really taken his opportunity as a clueless passerby and turn right around, but he already didn’t have Louis. The least he could do was save Liam and Zayn. So Harry ran into the bar, despite the several cuffed people yelling that he was crazy and the police officers shouting at him to stop.

He ignored them all.

He had pushed the doors open. He was just processing that yelling out their names would be extremely imprudent when someone touched him. Held him by his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Who are you?” Harry yelped. Then he saw it.

Blue eyes. Caramel fringe.

Louis.

The situation they were in melted around Harry. Nothing mattered when Louis was tugging at him like that — like he _cared._ Why was he here anyway?

“What are you doing?” It was Harry who asked this time.

“I asked first. What in the world do you think you’re doing? Going in there right now! Jesus, are you mental?” He held Harry’s wrist forcefully, but he probably didn’t even realise it. It was too cold and their epinephrine was running high. He’d leave bruises Harry would be too weak not to kiss and press later.

“I—” Harry started as soon as they left through the back door. He looked around to make sure there were no policemen around. He whispered nonetheless. “I’m friends with the owners. Had to make sure they were okay.”

“Were you just going to walk in there?” Louis spat.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Louis didn’t reply to that, just kept fast-walking. He did drop Harry’s wrist, though.

Harry only thought to ask again when they were in Louis’ car, but he waited for their breaths and the heater to take away some of the frigidness. The melting teardrops on the windows, though it was neither raining nor snowing, was very dramatic.

Only then did he ask again: “What were you doing there?”

Louis sighed. He hadn’t glanced at Harry once since they got in the car.

“Isn’t that what people do? Drink away their sorrows?”

“Sorrows?” Harry said in a way that left the final say on whether it was a statement or a question up for debate. He was digesting the thought himself, and it just slipped out.

“Heartbreak, if you wish,” Louis rebuffed.

“Heartbreak?”

“Will you stop that?” he seethed.

“I… I just—”

“Yes. Sorrows, heartbreak, whatever you prefer, Harry. I was going to drink my feelings away.”

 _Why a queer bar, though? That’s way more dangerous. Unless he was also looking for a shag._ Harry didn’t like the thought, so he shook his head and focused on what Louis had just told him: that he was sad. _Why?_ Harry wanted to ask, because he didn’t want to assume it was because of him. He especially didn’t want to assume the heartbreak was his fault, too; Louis had just divorced, after all.

He should’ve just kept his mouth tightly shut, really, but he found himself saying this: “That’s not the healthiest way.” He blushed immediately.

“What?” Louis hissed. “Of course it’s not!” Harry wished Louis was still not looking at him, because he was _red_ with rage.

Unfortunately, it also wasn’t the kind of irrational anger that could be written off. Louis had every right to be upset with Harry.

They were quiet for the remaining of the trip, at least until Harry realised Louis was driving to Highlands.

“Aren’t you taking me home?”

“You’re not going to that place right now,” Louis growled. “Do you realise how close to the bar it is?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. But I need to go home?”

“There are guest rooms, you know.” He reached for a cigarette then; in the rush, Harry hadn’t even realised that he wasn’t smoking. Perhaps he hadn’t either, but if there was one thing the hill provided was an odd sense of security. Odd because snakes live up there, in their fancy house, and yet it was still safe, somehow. Inside Louis’ house.

Harry sighed. “Alright.”

When Harry walked in, though, things changed — he could feel it in the air, it thickened. Louis leaned against the door to close it. They were silent, for a moment, feeling the house engulf them.

Then, Louis was cupping Harry’s cheeks and kissing him hard. It took Harry one second to kiss back, touch back, but it was the most wonderful feeling.

“Sorry,” Louis gasped when he pulled out a second later. “I just had to do that one last time.”

It looked like he’d like to run for it, but he stayed there, frozen. His eyes shined with tears.

“You can kiss me whenever you like,” Harry snivelled.

They looked at each other, deep in the eye. Unwaveringly.

“Why?” Louis eventually asked.

Harry shrugged. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

“That’s stupid. You can’t just — just, ugh!” Louis lit another cigarette. “Guest room’s this way.” He started in the direction he’d pointed to with his head, but Harry stopped him with a light hand on his shoulder.

“Lou, I just meant that—” he got distracted with Louis’ eyes. “That I don’t mind. I like it, when you kiss me.”

“I’m too tired for this right now, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “Can I kiss you again?” There was nothing to lose now, after all.

Louis — who had been avoiding his eyes — looked directly at him then. He could never say no to Harry, not even when kissing him again meant that his heart, already in pieces, would shatter all over again.

So they kissed — dipped in melancholy — once, twice, thrice, until they became desperate, soft kisses in between long, urging ones. It was meant to be only one. But Louis _had_ meant to sleep with someone tonight…

“Why?” Louis asked, not giving Harry time to answer, as he swallowed his response. _Why_ is what he should be asking _himself:_ Why _ruin a perfect moment?_

Well, as perfect as it could be. Their eyes were wet and red-rimmed, and Louis could barely see; his vision was blurry with tears.

Harry didn’t reply until hours later, when they laid in Louis’ bed. When Harry thought Louis was already asleep.

“Because I love you.”

(Louis _did_ hear him. But he just sighed and buried his face in Harry’s chest.)

By the time Louis woke up, though, he was restless with the questions, and Harry had curved into a tiny ball, with his back to Louis’ chest.

“If we both love each other, why can’t we _be_ together?” he whispered against Harry’s nape. His eyes burned with incoming tears.

“Lou…” Harry croaked. He flipped so he faced Louis. “Your children.”

Louis sighed. His eyes were still puffy with sleep, how could he be so serious already? But he was also tired of this drama.

“Harry,” Louis rested his head on his palm, weight on his elbow. “The whole world is against us.” He fiddled with one of Harry’s curls. “I don’t see why we’d just _let_ them win.”

“Win?”

“Yes. They say we’re wrong and we just take it. They say we’re illegal and we just take it. It’s gotta stop.”

“Lou, we can’t just tell people.”

“I’m not saying we should.”

“What _are_ you saying?”

“That they don’t _matter,_ Harry! _This_ ,” he pointed between them, “is our business and ours alone. No one’s gotta know.”

“But what if they find out?”

Louis flopped back on the bed. Then he jumped up, and threw on a fluffy robe and slippers, and practically ran out of the room.

“Louis! Louis! Where are you going?”

He didn’t reply.

He was fuming. Harry could almost see the smoke coming out of his ears, his forehead steaming red…

Harry grabbed the other fluffy robe he found in the closet and ran after Louis.

He headed for the living room — the wedding portrait had left a spot on the wall, brighter than the rest — and swung the glass doors to the backyard open. The sun hadn’t risen yet.

“Louis,” Harry hissed, afraid to wake up the neighbours.

Louis slumped on the backyard bench. He didn’t scoff or move away when Harry sat beside him, though.

Harry sighed. “Lou…” He just didn’t know how else to explain that being together might ruin Louis’ life.

“Look at the stars, Harry.” Had he been listening at all? “Look at them.” He wouldn't even sneak one glance at Harry, eyes locked tightly at the sky.

It was pretty. Black. Not really opaque, not with the whiskers of light that the stars left, a trail of their magic forming a halo around them.

“There’s one for every reason why I love you.”

Harry snapped to Louis at this, only to find his sad eyes on him already, skipping from one to another; left, right, left, right, left, right. Then on his lips, for a brief second, and then down at his own hands.

“I love you because this is just how we are. Nothing in the world could’ve changed that, Harry, I don’t think.” It wasn’t that cold, but his breath left pallid clouds in the air. “I love you because you make me laugh, and there is nothing in the world that I enjoy more than making _you_ laugh. I love you because you take the simple things in life — vanilla ice cream and one’s handwriting — and you make it so exciting, Harry. Your eyes glow when you talk about them. You make me want to wake up every day, if only to see how much or little your smile has changed.”

Harry let his head fall to Louis’ shoulder and he let Louis play with his hair and they held hands — right there. In a backyard, outside. Almost in plain sight.

Being outside was refreshing — literally, of course, but Harry had never been with a man _outside._ Not quite like this.

In love.

Perhaps they could do this…

“Aren’t you scared?” Harry whispered. He still wasn’t comfortable raising his voice.

“Shitless.” Louis was so sudden and so certain that Harry couldn’t contain the startled, breathy laugh he let out.

“And yet…”

“Always.”

**xviii.**

_still high with a little feeling  
_ _i see the smile as it starts to creep in  
_ _it was there, i saw it in your eyes  
_ — _home, one direction (2015)_

There were nights in which neighbours called the police (Louis always suspected the Cowells) and they had to rush to ruffle up the guest bedroom.

There were nights in which waiters twisted their nose at them or even outright refused to serve them, and there were days in which they stole kisses in plain sight.

There were days that were hard, when neither could motivate the other, but there were days in which they were all over each other.

***

It was summer again. Outside, hummingbird pecked the feeders Harry had put up, and butterflies danced through pecks of pollen, and children’s laughter echoed through the entire city.

Louis couldn’t settle. He’d never been great at packing, but that was not it, not this time. He couldn’t focus.

“It’s okay, I can pack for you, today,” Harry had told him, soft and understanding, as he kissed Louis’ shoulder.

Harry hummed. He always hummed under his breath, but it had never been this quiet before. Louis’ mind had never been this tunnelled for him to hear it this clearly — this exclusively; only Harry’s voice filling his brain. Well — his voice, and the nervousness.

He couldn’t look away from the window. Almost like he was magnetically pulled to it; the glass was too strong to pull away.

She was coming.

Really, there was no reason for Louis’ stress. It’d be fine. She’d ring the doorbell. They wouldn’t converse much, likely. Then she’d take the girls and leave. It’d be fine.

“Right?” he whispered.

“Of course it will,” Harry assured.

“Right,” Louis gritted, mostly to himself. He took one last drag of his cigar and put it down to find the twins.

It was funny, when they found out. They had been drinking, so that was probably why they giggled so much. Later, sober, Louis thought of how mad it all was. But knowing brought him relief, and only after that were they truly comfortable around each other again. And they also settled custody.

The girls, like the first time Harry had seen them, wore matching day dresses, in pastel summery colours, and with matching silk headbands. They were muttering — Louis could only hear high rasps of their breaths — and very interested in whatever they were discussing. Louis just watched for a moment.

“These gloves are so pretty,” Daphne lilted. She held up plaid woollen gloves.

Kaila giggled. “It’s summer!”

“So?”

“Those are too hot.” She tried to snatch the gloves, but Daphne sat on them.

“But they’re pretty!”

“But you’re not going to _wear_ them,” Kaila scoffed. “Mum said to _only_ bring what we need, we don’t have much space. And you won’t _swim_ in those, will you, so you have to leave them here.”

Ah, the important battles. Louis intervened: “Girls? Everything alright?” They immediately started pointing fingers and raging on, speaking at the same time. “Hey, hey, no,” Louis held up his hands to call their attention. “You’re going on vacation. This is supposed to be fun. Stop arguing.” Both still had set pouts and furrowed brows. Louis sighed. “I’m sure there’s space for those tiny gloves, but they’re winter gloves,” he consented, “and I don’t wanna hear any more arguing.”

The girls still looked like they’d sneer at one another the entire car ride, but he left anyway. The doorbell had rung.

He barely hesitated to unlock it.

“Lou,” Agnes beamed. She always smiled so beautifully nowadays. Louis almost didn’t recognise her when he saw it, months ago.

“Hello, love, come in,” he lilted. “How are you?”

“Oh, it’s all just lovely. I can’t wait to take the girls to the lake; they’ll be marvelled, it’s so beautiful there.”

Louis smiled. “Yes, they’re nearly ready to go. Just arguing over which gloves to take.”

Agnes raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” she laughed lightly, shaking her head. “And you, love? Excited?”

The lie was at the tip of his tongue, but Agnes’ eyes were genuine. He swallowed. “Shaking.” His hands really were wobbly; he had been afraid to pick up glasses all morning.

She grasped his inner elbow and beckoned him to look at her. “Lou, I can’t promise you much of anything, but as long as you are happy, no one else’s opinion matters. Okay?” he nodded. “Alright. So call in the girls and enjoy your time with Harry before you have to leave,” she winked, and Louis blushed burning hot.

“Alright, alright,” he stuttered, with a hint of a smile at the tip of his lips.

Harry and Louis were heading to the city for the release of Louis’ debut novel. Louis was nervous for a number of reasons: it’d be their first flight, together or otherwise, and it didn’t matter how much others complimented the luxury of aeroplanes — Louis and Harry weren’t convinced humans were to fly. And, of course, there was the actual novel. It’d be controversial, but — this is what he constantly told himself — it had gotten approved, so clearly it wasn’t that blatant. But just thinking about it made his blood rush and his head spin.

He had, as most authors do, implemented bits of himself and those around him into the characters — and, of course, to be himself was to be queer.

Perhaps sensing his distress, Harry huffed, kitten-like, at the magazine he was reading. After the take-off, they found that flying was incredibly dull.

When Louis didn’t stop fidgeting, Harry sighed again.

Louis finally gave in: “What is it, love?”

“This font!” he puffed. “It’s horrendous, and I can’t even concentrate when all I see are these… these _wretched_ letters!”

Louis stifled a laugh, but the font really was quite dreadful.

“Oh, love, they’re just trying to modernise.”

“Well, quite frankly, I think they’re trying self-sabotage.”

Louis smiled brightly and coughed as to not cackle and disturb the other passengers. “It certainly has nothing on your work,” he reassured, holding back a _my love._ “Everyone will be so enticed with my book’s _ground-breaking_ font, they won’t be able to put it down.”

Harry found work as a font designer, and Louis insisted that he work on his novel’s typography.

“I’m sure they’ll be enticed by the story, rather,” Harry encouraged. “I’m sure lots of people will find the comfort and acceptance that they need in it,” he crooned, afraid to be overheard speaking so intimately with Louis.

“Perhaps. Perhaps.”

“I’ll be there, always,” Harry dared squeeze his hand.

Louis’ eyes danced between Harry’s — left, right, left, right — before he mouthed the words, slow and certain. _I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! please leave comments & kudos and [reblog](https://moonshinelouis.tumblr.com/post/189963007240/a-perpetual-sunrise-by-moonshinelouis-31k-for) the fic post if you liked!

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](https://moonshinelouis.tumblr.com/post/612881732165910528/moonshinelouis-archive-a-perpetual-sunrise-by)


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